IONSIN  IN  STORY  AND  SONG 


ROUNDS-ffiPPENSTEEL 


Wisconsin  in  Story  and  Song 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  PROSE  AND 

POETRY  OF  BADGER  STATE 

WRITERS 


EDITED  BY 

CHARLES  RALPH  ROUNDS 

HEAD  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH  OF  THE 
MILWAUKEE  STATE  NORMAL  SCHOOL 


AND 

HENRY  SHERMAN  HIPPENSTEEL 

HEAD  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH  AND  DIRECTOR 

OF  HIGH  SCHOOL  TEACHER  TRAINING  OF  THE 

STEVENS  POINT  NORMAL  SCHOOL 


PUBLISHERS 

THE  PARKER  EDUCATIONAL  COMPANY 
MADISON,  WISCONSIN 


COPYRIGHT.  1916 

BY 

THE  PARKER  EDUCATIONAL  CO. 
MADISON.  WISCONSIN 


To  the  authors  of  today  and  of  former  days, 
whose  genius  and  co-operation  have  made  this 
book  possible,  and  to  the  young  people  who 
may,  by  reading  these  pages,  be  inspired  to 
carry  the  banner  of  our  state  still  farther 
into  the  realm  of  literature, 

WISCONSIN  IN  STORY  AND  SONG 

is  affectionately  dedicated. 


8G7251 


TABLE  OP  CONTENTS. 

Page 
General  Wisconsin  Writers. 

HAMLIN   GARLAND 13-  39 

Haying  Time,  Among  the  Corn  Rows,  Ploughing, 
Ladrone,  The  Toil  of  the  Trail,  The  Blue  Jay, 
Pom  Pom  Pull  Away,  The  Old-Fashloned  Thresh- 
ing in  Green's  Coolly. 

GENERAL   CHARLES   KING 40-63 

Ray's  Ride  for  Life  (from  "Marion's  Faith"), 
The  Final  Blow. 

JOHN   MUIR 64-  71 

Snow  Banners. 

ELLA   WHEELER   WILCOX 72-  84 

The  Two  Glasses,  The  Kingdom  of  Love,  The 
Tendril's  Fate,  Three  Friends,  Ambitions'  Trail, 
Morning  Prayer,  I  Am,  Which  Are  You? 

RAY  STANNARD  BAKER 85-98 

Through  the  Air,  Marconi  and  His  Great  Achieve- 
ments—New Experiments  in  Wireless  Telegraphy, 
The  Roping  at  Pasco's. 

"DAVID    GRAYSON" * 99-113 

An  Argument  with  a  Millionaire. 

ZONA   GALE 114-127 

Why?,  The  Holy  Place,  Friendship  Village. 

EBEN    EUGENE    REXFORD 128-144 

Watering  Plants,  Tea  Roses  for  Beds,  The  Old 
Village  Choir,  The  Two  Singers,  The  Unfruitful 
Tree,  A  Day  in  June,  Silver  Threads  Among  the 
Gold,  When  Silver  Threads  Are  Gold  Again. 

CARL    SCHURZ 145-149 

Selections  from  his  Reminiscences,  The  True 
Americanism. 

HONORS    WILLSIE 150-162 

The  Forbidden  North,  A  Story  of  a  Great  Dane 
Puppy. 

EDNA   FERBER 163-171 

Steeped  in  German. 

GEORGE  L.  TEEPLE 172-183 

The  Battle  of  Gray's  Pasture. 

GEORGE    BYRON    MERRICK 184-188 

Old  Times  on  the  Upper  Mississippi. 

HATTIE    TYNG    GRISWOLD 189-192 

John  G.  Whittier. 


S  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

ALBERT   H.    SANFORD ,  ,    193-195 

The  Story  of  Agriculture  In  the  United  States. 
CHARLES  D.   STEWART 196-201 

On  a  Moraine. 
ELLIOTT    FLOWER 202-208 

The  Impractical  Man. 
JENKIN  LLOYD  JONES 209-212 

Nuggets  from  a  Welsh  Mine. 
EVERETT  McNEIL ,  .    213-218 

Mother's  Wolf  Story. 


The  University  Group. 

PRESIDENT  CHARLES  R.  VAN  HISE 220-224 

The  Future  of  Man  in  America. 
DEAN  E.  A.  BIRGE 224-228 

Milton. 
RASMUS  B.   ANDERSON 228-230 

Bjarne  Herjulfson,   986. 
REUBEN  GOLD  THWAITES 230-234 

The  Discovery  of  Wisconsin. 
FREDERICK  J.  TURNER 234-238 

The    Significance    of   the    Frontier   in    American 

History. 
PAUL  S.  REINSCH .    238-241 

The  New  Education  of  China. 
GEORGE   C.   COMSTOCK 242-244 

Astrology  in  Life  and  Literature. 
J.  F.  A.  PYRE 245-246 

Byron  in  Our  Day. 
EDWARD  A.  ROSS 246-250 

The  Conflict  of  Oriental  and  Western  Cultures  in 

China. 
GRANT  SHOWERMAN 251-254 

A   Lad's   Recollections   of   His   Boyhood    Haunts 

and  Experiences  in  the  Earlier  Days. 
WILLIAM   E.    LEONARD 254-260 

The  Glory  of  the  Morning,  Love  Afar,  The  Image 

of  Delight,  A  Dedication. 
THOMAS  H.  DICKINSON 260-263 

In  Hospital. 
WILLIAM  J.  NEIDIG 263-265 

The  Buoy-Bell. 
BRALEY — WINSLOW — JONES 265-268 

Sometimes,  The  Pioneers,  A  Little  Book  of  Local 

Verse. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  9= 

JOSEPH  P.  WEBSTER 269 

Sweet  Bye  and  Bye. 


Writers  of  Local  Distinction. 

SHERIFF,  BOND,  THOMSON,  WHITNEY,  BAER, 
HENDERSON,  ADAMS,  PLANTZ,  CARLTON, 
MOORE,  LATHROP,  MANVILLE,  BLAISDELL, 
NAGLE,  CHASE,  DAVIDSON,  BROWN, 

WHEELER ;  . 270-285 

Other  Wisconsin  Writers  and  Their  Works. 


NAMES  ONLY  WITHOUT  SELECTIONS 28ft 


Wisconsin  Humorists. 

LUTE  A.   TAYLOR 288-290 

"BILL"    NYE 291-294 

GEORGE  W.  PECK 294-297 

WILLIAM   F.    KIRK.  ,  .297-298 


PREFACE. 

In  preparing  this  book  the  editors  have  had  two  main  pur- 
poses in  view.  Their  first  purpose  has  been  to  furnish  some 
definite  knowledge  concerning  literary  productions  of  Wiscon- 
sin people.  They  have  been  surprised,  and  they  feel  that  their 
readers  will  be  surprised,  to  find  how  many  authors  of  national 
repute  have  been  intimately  associated  with  Wisconsin  life; 
and  further,  to  find  that  many  writers  who  have  not  as  yet 
gained  fame  outside  the  state  have  written  things  that  are 
beyond  doubt  highly  creditable. 

The  second  purpose  has  been  to  kindle  the  surprise  just 
mentioned  into  wholesome  effort,  particularly  among  our 
young  people,  to  appreciate  what  literature  is  and  how  it  is 
produced,  and  to  encourage  these  readers  to  study  the  life 
round  about  them  with  a  view  to  expressing  their  observations 
in  literary  language.  In  other  words,  they  hope  that  this  book 
may  stimulate  Wisconsin  authors  to  still  greater  literary 
activity. 

The  difficulties  in  the  preparation  of  such  a  compilation  as 
this  may  be  readily  imagined.  First,  there  is  the  problem  of 
selection  or  rejection  on  account  of  geographical  eligibility. 
The  editors  have  not  drawn  the  line  at  nativity  or  at  present 
residence,  but  have  rather  defined  it  thus:  Anyone  who,  In  his 
mature  life,  has  become  identified  with  Wisconsin,  both  through 
residence  and  through  literary,  educational,  or^ other  activity, 
is  geographically  eligible. 

Literary  eligibility  is  still  more  difficult  to  determine.  In 
general,  the  editors  have  been  guided  in  their  decisions  by  the 
judgment  of  the  reading  public,  which  is,  after  all,  in  many 
ways  one  of  the  best  critics.  There  is,  however,  the  problem 
of  early  writers  who  had  considerable  vogue  In  their  day;  and 
likewise  that  of  young  authors  whose  works  are  just  now  be- 
ginning to  appear.  They  can  scarcely  hope  to  have  done  exact 
justice  in  either  one  of  these  two  fields.  New  writers  of  promise 
are  arising.  Perhaps  some  that  have  held  the  center  of  the 
stage  will  soon  have  to  give  place.  Literary  estimates  are  in- 


12  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

herently   a  changing   quantity.     Absolutely  just  criticism   of 
today  will  be  warped  judgment  tomorrow. 

Further,  it  is  possible  that  there  may  be  serious  oversight 
in  this  collection.  For  any  such  error  the  editors  wish  before- 
hand to  make  due  apology.  It  has  not  been  their  intention  to 
discriminate  against  any  person  or  group  or  section.  They  will 
be  placed  under  obligation  by  any  persons  who  will,  upon  read- 
ing the  selections  here  noted,  write  them  with  respect  to  other 
authors  whose  works,  they  feel,  should  have  been  represented. 

While  this  book,  it  is  hoped,  will  have  a  general  interest 
for  all  Wisconsin  readers,  it  is  believed  that  it  may  prove  of 
particular  use  as  supplementary  reading  in  the  seventh  and 
eighth  grades  and  the  early  years  of  the  high  school.  To  the 
end  that  the  selections  may  prove  available  for  this  use,  brief 
biographical  and  critical  explanations  have  been  given  with 
nearly  every  selection. 

The  editors  acknowledge  with  gratitude  the  ready  co- 
operation of  both  authors  and  publishers  in  permitting  the  use 
of  copyrighted  material,  specific  credit  being  given  in  each  case 
in  the  proper  connection.  Particular  mention  should  also  be 
made  of  the  "Bibliography  of  Wisconsin  Authors,"  prepared  in 
1893  for  the  Wisconsin  Historical  Society  by  Emma  A.  Hawley, 
under  direction  of  Reuben  Gold  Thwaites;  and  of  "The  Socalled 
School  of  Wisconsin  Authors,"  Miss  Zona  Gale's  thesis,  under 
the  same  date. 

C.   R.   R. 
H.  S.  H. 


GENERAL  WRITERS. 

HAMLIN  GARLAND. 

Hamlin  Garland  was  born  in  the  beautiful  La  Crosse  valley, 
September  16,  1860,  and  lived  there  until  he  was  eight  years 
old.  Twenty-three  years  ago  he  purchased  the  old  homestead 
near  West  Salem,  La  Crosse  County,  and  to  this  he  delights  to 
return  each  year  for  part  of  his  summer.  As  one  reads  his 
description  of  the  trip  to  West  Salem  over  the  Northwestern 
Line  in  his  story,  "Up  the  Cooley,"  he  is  compelled  to  see  how 
much  Mr.  Garland  loves  the  scenes  of  Wisconsin. 

Among  the  other  states  which  may  share  in  the  right  to 
claim  Hamlin  Garland  are  Iowa,  Massachusetts,  Illinois,  and 
South  Dakota.  In  Iowa  he  learned  what  the  rural  school,  the 
academy,  and  the  farm  could  teach  him.  It  was  in  the  Bos- 
ton Public  Library  that  he  formed  much  of  his  literary  style 
and  determined  that  the  material  for  his  future  literary  work 
should  be  the  western  life  that  he  knew  so  well.  In  Illinois 
he  began  his  work  as  a  teacher  and  a  lecturer.  Here  he  met 
the  girl  who  was  to  become  his  wife,  Miss  Zulima  Taft,  sister 
of  the  artist,  Lorado  Taft.  Chicago  is  his  present  home.  Mr. 
Garland  visited  his  parents  in  South  Dakota  in  1883  and  took 
up  a  claim  there.  Here  he  got  material  which  he  incorporated 
into  some  of  his  stories,  among  which  the  Moccassin  Ranch  is 
the  most  notable. 

The  experience  in  these  several  states  gave  Hamlin  Garland 
an  excellent  opportunity  to  understand  all  phases  of  country 
life.  He  has  expressed  his  observations  in  description  of  boys' 
games,  the  labor  on  the  farm,  the  work  of  the  rural  school,  and 
the  varied  activities  of  the  rural  community.  He  knew  that 
the  work  of  the  farm  in  an  early  day  furnished  as  much  oppor- 
tunity for  the  display  of  resistance  and  the  determination  to 
use  the  last  bit  of  strength  to  win  as  does  the  game  of  the 
present.  The  work  of  binding  the  wheat  after  a  reaper  became 
a  game  requiring  honesty  as  well  as  skill  and  rapidity.  Per- 
haps no  boy  of  today  shoots  a  basket,  makes  a  touch-down,  or 
hits  out  a  home  run  with  more  pride  than  did  the  youth  of  this 
pioneer  life  retire  from  the  harvest  field  at  noon  or  night  with 
the  consciousness  that  he  had  bound  all  his  "tricks"  without 
being  caught  once  by  the  machine  as  it  made  its  successive 
rounds  of  the  field. 

Hamlin  Garland  knew  the  joys  of  these  contests  on  the 
pioneer  farm,  and  he  also  knew  the  sordid  side  of  the  narrow 
and  cramped  life  of  the  early  settler.  He  describes  both  with 
equal  vividness  and  sympathy.  Wisconsin  owes  him  much  for 
the  work  he  has  done  in  preserving  pictures  of  her  early  pio- 
neer life.  His  hero  and  heroine  are  those  ancestors  who  trav- 


14  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

elled  forth  Jntc  tho  new  regions  In  covared  wagons,  and  by  the 
use  of  axe  and  plow  conquered  a  seemingly  unconquerable  for- 
est or  a  stubborn  prairie  sod.  In  his  book  of  short  stories, 
"Main  Travelled  Roads,"  he  makes  the  dedication  of  it  to  his 
heroic  parents  in  these  words: 

"To  my  father  and  mother,  whose  half-century  pilgrimage 
on  the  main  travelled  road  of  life  has  brought  them  only  toil 
and  deprivation,  this  book  of  stories  is  dedicated  by  a  son  to 
whom  every  day  brings  a  deepening  sense  of  his  parents'  silent 
heroism." 

To  illustrate  Mr.  Garland's  ability  to  picture  the  joyous  and 
the  irksome  in  the  life  of  the  pioneer  two  selections  are  given 
at  this  place.  The  first  sets  forth  the  joy  of  farm  activity,  the 
second,  the  disheartening  influence  of  abject  toil. 

HAYING  TIME 

From   "BOY  LIFE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE."     Published  by  permission 
of  Harper  Bros. 

Haying  was  the  one  season  of  farm  work  which  the 
boys  thoroughly  enjoyed.  It  usually  began  on  the 
tame  meadows  about  the  twenty-fifth  of  June,  and  lasted 
a  week  or  so.  It  had  always  appealed  to  Lincoln,*  in  a 
distinctly  beautiful  and  poetic  sense,  which  was  not  true 
of  the  main  business  of  farming.  Most  of  the  duties 
through  which  he  passed  needed  the  lapse  of  years  to 
seem  beautiful  in  his  eyes,  but  haying  had  a  charm  and 
significance  quite  out  of  the  common. 

At  this  time  the  summer  was  at  its  most  exuberant 
stage  of  vitality,  and  it  was  not  strange  that  even  the 
faculties  of  toiling  old  men,  dulled  and  deadened  with 
never  ending  drudgery,  caught  something  of  exultation 
from  the  superabundant  glow  and  throb  of  Nature's  life. 

The  corn  fields,  dark  green  and  sweet-smelling,  rippled 
like  a  sea  with  a  multitudinous  stir  and  sheen  and  swirl. 
Waves  of  dusk  and  green  and  yellow  circled  across  the 
level  fields,  while  long  leaves  upthrust  at  intervals  like 
spears  or  shook  like  guidons.  The  trees  were  in  heavy 
leaf,  insect  life  was  at  its  height,  and  the  air  was  filled 


•The  name  of  a  boy  in  the  story. 


HAMLIN  GARLAND 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  17 

with  biizzing,  dancing  forms  and  with  the  sheen  of  in- 
numerable gauzy  wings. 

The  air  was  shaken  by  most  ecstatic  voices.  The 
bobolinks  sailed  and  sang  in  the  sensuous  air,  now  sink- 
ing, now  rising,  their  exquisite  notes  ringing,  filling  the 
air  like  the  chimes  of  tiny  silver  bells.  The  kingbird, 
ever  alert  ar.d  aggressive,  cried  out  sharply  as  he  launch- 
ed from  the  top  of  a  poplar  tree  upon  some  buzzing  in- 
sect, and  the  plover  made  the  prairie  sad  with  his  wailing 
call.  Vast  purple-and-white  clouds  moved  like  bellying 
sails  before  the  lazy  wind,  dark  with  rain,  which  they 
dropped  momentarily  like  trailing  garments  upon  the 
earth,  and  so  passed  on  in  stately  measure  with  a  roll  of 
thunder. 

The  grasshoppers  moved  in  clouds  with  snap  and 
buzz,  and  out  of  the  luxurious  stagnant  marshes  came 
the  ever  thickening  chorus  of  the  toads  and  the  frogs, 
while  above  them  the  kildees  and  the  snipe  shuttled  to  and 
fro  in  sounding  flight,  and  the  blackbirds  on  the  cattails 
and  willows  swayed  with  lifted  throats,  uttering  their 
subtle  liquid  notes,  made  mad  with  delight  of  the  sun 
and  their  own  music.  And  over  all  and  through  all  moved 
the  slow,  soft  west  wind,  laden  with  the  breath  of  the 
far-off  prairie  lands  of  the  west,  soothing  and  hushing 
and  filling  the  world  with  a  slumbrous  haze. 

The  weather  in  haying  time  was  glorious,  with  only 
occasional  showers  to  accentuate  the  splendid  sunlight. 
There  were  no  old  men  and  no  women  in  these  fields.  The 
men  were  young  and  vigorous,  and  their  action  was  swift 
and  supple.  Sometimes  it  was  hot  to  the  danger  point, 
especially  on  the  windless  side  of  the  stack  (no  one  had 
haybarns  in  those  days)  and  sometimes  the  pitcher  com- 
plained of  cold  chills  running  up  his  back.  Sometimes 
Jack  flung  a  pail  full  of  water  over  his  head  and  shoulders 


18  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

before  beginning  to  unload>  and  seemed  the  better  for  it. 
Mr.  Stewart  kept  plenty  of  "switcher*  (whicb  is  com- 
posed of  ginger  and  water)  for  his  hands  to  drink.  He 
had  a  notion  that  it  was  less  injurious  than  water  or  beer, 
and  no  sun  strokes  occurred  among  his  men. 

Once,  one  hot  afternoon,  the  air  took  on  an  oppressive 
density,  the  wind  died  away  almost  to  a  calm,  blowing 
fitfully  from  the  south,  while  in  the  far  west  a  vast  dome 
of  inky  clouds,  silent  and  portentous,  uplifted,  filling  the 
horizon,  swelling  like  a  great  bubble,  yet  seeming  to  have 
the  weight  of  a  mountain  range  in  its  mass.  The  birds, 
bees,  and  all  insects,  hitherto  vocal,  suddenly  sank  into 
silence,  as  if  awed  by  the  first  deep  mutter  of  the  storm. 
The  mercury  is  touching  one  hundred  degrees  in  the 
shade. 

All  hands  hasten  to  get  the  hay  in  order,  that  it  may 
shed  rain.  They  hurry  without  haste,  as  only  adept 
workmen  can.  They  roll  up  the  windrows  by  getting 
fork  and  shoulder  under  one  end,  tumbling  it  over  and 
over  endwise,  till  it  is  large  enough ;  then  go  back  for  the 
scatterings,  which  are  placed,  with  a  deft  turn  of  the 
fork,  on  the  top  to  cap  the  pile.  The  boys  laugh  and 
shout  as  they  race  across  the  field.  Every  man  is  wet 
to  the  skin  with  sweat;  hats  are  flung  aside;  Lincoln, 
on  the  rake,  puts  his  horse  to  the  trot.  The  feeling  of  the 
struggle,  of  racing  with  the  thunder,  exalts  him. 

Nearer  and  nearer  comes  the  storm,  silent  no  longer. 
The  clouds  are  breaking  up.  The  boys  stop  to  listen. 
Far  away  is  heard  the  low,  steady,  crescendo,  grim  roar ; 
intermixed  with  crashing  thunderbolts,  the  rain  streams 
aslant,  but  there  is  not  yet  a  breath  of  air  from  the  west ; 
the  storm  wind  is  still  far  away;  the  toads  in  the  marsh, 
and  the  fearless  king-bird,  alone  cry  out  in  the  ominous 
gloom  cast  by  the  rolling  clouds  of  the  tempest. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  19 

"Look  out!  here  it  comes!"  calls  the  boss.  The  black 
cloud  melts  to  form  the  gray  veil  of  the  falling  rain, 
which  blots  out  the  plain  as  it  sweeps  on.  Now  it  strikes 
the  corn-field,  sending  a  tidal  wave  rushing  across  it.  Now 
it  reaches  the  wind-break,  and  the  spire-like  poplars  bow 
humbly  to  it.  Now  it  touches  the  hay-field,  and  the  caps 
of  the  cocks  go  flying ;  the  long  grass  streams  in  the  wind 
like  a  woman's  hair.  In  an  instant  the  day's  work  is 
undone  and  the  hay  is  opened  to  the  drenching  rain. 

As  all  hands  rush  for  the  house,  the  roaring  tempest 
rides  upon  them  like  a  regiment  of  demon  cavalry.  The 
lightning  breaks  forth  from  the  blinding  gray  clouds 
of  rain.  As  Lincoln  looks  up  he  sees  the  streams  of  fire 
go  rushing  across  the  sky  like  the  branching  of  great 
red  trees.  A  moment  more,  and  the  solid  sheets  of  water 
fall  upon  the  landscape,  shutting  it  from  view,  and  the 
thunder  crashes  out,  sharp  and  splitting,  in  the  near  dis- 
tance, to  go  deepening  and  bellowing  off  down  the  il- 
limitable spaces  of  the  sky  and  plain,  enlarging,  as  it  goes, 
like  the  rumor  of  war. 

In  the  east  is  still  to  be  seen  a  faint  crescent  of  the 
sunny  sky,  rapidly  being  closed  in  as  the  rain  sweeps 
eastward;  but  as  that  diminishes  to  a  gleam,  a  similar 
window,  faint,  watery,  and  gray,  appears  in  the  west,  as 
the  clouds  break  away.  It  widens,  grows  yellow,  and 
then  red;  and  at  last  blazes  out  into  an  inexpressible 
glory  of  purple  and  crimson  and  gold,  as  the  storm  moves 
swiftly  over.  The  thunder  grows  deeper,  dies  to  a  retreat- 
ing mutter,  and  is  lost.  The  clouds'  dark  presence  passes 
away.  The  trees  flame  with  light,  the  robins  take  up  their 
songs  again,  the  air  is  deliciously  cool.  The  corn  stands 
bent,  as  if  still  acknowledging  the  majesty  of  the  wind. 
Everything  is  new-washed,  clean  of  dust,  and  a  faint, 
moist  odor  of  green  things  fills  the  air.  '  . 


20  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Lincoln  seizes  the  opportunity  to  take  Owen's  place  in 
bringing  the  cattle,  and  mounting  his  horse  gallops  away. 
The  road  is  wet  and  muddy,  but  the  prairie  is  firm,  and 
the  pony  is  full  of  power.  In  full  flower,  fragrant  with 
green  grass  and  radiant  with  wild  roses,  sweet-williams, 
lilies,  pinks,  and  pea-vines,  the  sward  lies  new  washed 
by  the  rain,  while  over  it  runs  a  strong,  cool  wind  from 
the  west.  The  boy's  heart  swells  with  unutterable  joy 
of  life.  The  world  is  exaltingly  beautiful.  It  is  good  to 
be  alone,  good  to  be  a  boy,  and  to  be  mounted  on  a  swift 
horse. 

AMONG  THE  CORN  ROWS 

Prom    "MAIN   TRAVELLED    ROADS."     Printed    by    permission    of 
Harper  Bros. 

A  corn-field  in  July  is  a  sultry  place.  The  soil  is  hot 
and  dry;  the  wind  comes  across  the  lazily  murmuring 
leaves  laden  with  a  warm,  sickening  smell  drawn  from  the 
rapidly  growing,  broad-flung  banners  of  the  corn.  The 
sun,  nearly  vertical,  drops  a  flood  of  dazzling  light  upon 
the  field  over  which  the  cool  shadows  run,  only  to  make 
the  heat  seem  the  more  intense. 

Julia  Peterson,  faint  with  hunger,  was  toiling  back 
and  forth  between  the  corn-rows,  holding  the  handles  of 
the  double-shovel  corn  plow,  while  her  little  brother  Otto 
rode  the  steaming  horse.  Her  heart  was  full  of  bitterness, 
her  face  flushed  with  heat,  and  her  muscles  aching  with 
fatigue.  The  heat  grew  terrible.  The  corn  came  to  her 
shoulders,  and  not  a  breath  seemed  to  reach  her,  while 
the  sun,  nearing  the  noon  mark,  lay  pitilessly  upon  her 
shoulders,  protected  only  by  a  calico  dress.  The  dust  rose 
under  her  feet,  and  as  she  was  wet  with  perspiration  it 
soiled  her  till  with  a  woman's  instinctive  cleanliness,  she 
shuddered.  Her  head  throbbed  dangerously.  What  mat- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  21 

ter  to  her  that  the  king  bird  flitted  jovially  from  the  maple 
to  catch  a  wandering  blue  bottle  fly,  that  the  robin  was 
feeding  her  young,  that  the  bobolink  was  singing.  All 
these  things,  if  she  saw  them,  only  threw  her  bondage 
to  labor  into  greater  relief. 

Across  the  field,  in  another  patch  of  corn,  she  could 
see  her  father — a  big,  gruff-voiced,  wide-bearded  Nor- 
wegian— at  work  also  with  a  plow.  The  corn  must  be 
plowed,  and  so  she  toiled  on,  the  tears  dropping  from  the 
shadow  of  the  ugly  sun-bonnet  she  wore.  Her  shoes, 
coarse  and  square-toed,  chafed  her  feet;  her  hands,  large 
and  strong,  were  browned,  or,  more  properly,  burnt,  on 
the  backs  by  the  sun.  The  horse's  harness  " creak- 
cracked  "  as  he  swung  steadily  and  patiently  forward, 
the  moisture  pouring  from  his  hide,  his  nostrils  distended. 

The  field  bordered  on  a  road,  and  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road  ran  a  river — a  broad,  clear,  shallow  expanse 
at  that  point — and  the  eyes  of  the  girl  gazed  longingly  at 
the  pond  and  the  cool  shadow  each  time  that  she  turned 
at  the  fence. 

This  same  contrast  Is  expressed  by  Hamlin  Garland  In  two 
poems  presented  here.  The  first,  "Ploughing,"  sets  forth  the 
irksome  toil  to  which  the  undeveloped  boy  was  subjected.  The 
second,  "Ladrone,"  portrays  the  joy  which  the  youth  in  the 
country  acquires  from  association  with  the  animals  of  the  farm. 
These  poems  and  all  the  following  selections  are  taken  from 
"Boy  Life  on  the  Prairie,"  and  are  here  published  by  permis- 
sion of  the  Macmillan  Company. 

PLOWING 

A  lonely  task  it  is  to  plough! 

All  day  the  black  and  clinging  soil 

Rolls  like  a  ribbon  from  the  mould-board's 

Glistening  curve..   All  day  the  horses  toil 

Battling  with  the  flies — and  strain 

Their  creaking  collars.     All  day 

The  crickets  jeer  from  wind-blown  shocks  of  grain. 


22  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

October  brings  the  frosty  dawn, 

The  still,  warm  noon,  the  cold,  clear  night, 

When  torpid  insects  make  no  sound, 

And  wild-fowl  in  their  southward  flight 

Go  by  in  hosts — and  still  the  boy 

And  tired  team  gnaw  round  by  round, 

At  weather-beaten  stubble,  band  by  band, 

Until  at  last,  to  their  great  joy, 

The  winter's  snow  seals  up  the  unploughed  land. 


LADRONE 

And,  "What  of  Ladrone" — do  you  ask? 

Oh!  friend,  I  am  sad  at  the  name. 

My  splendid  fleet  roan! — The  task 

Tou  require  is  a  hard  one  at  best. 

Swift  as  the  spectral  coyote,  as  tame 

To  my  voice  as  a  sweetheart,  an  eye 

Like  a  pool  in  the  woodland  asleep, 

Brown,  clear,  and  calm,  with  color  down  deep, 

Where  his  brave,  proud  soul  seemed  to  lie — 

Ladrone!     There's  a  spell  in  the  word. 

The  city  walls  fade  on  my  eye — the  roar 

Of  its  traffic  grows  dim 

As  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  a  dream. 

My  spirit  takes  wing  like  a  bird. 

Once  more  I'm  asleep  on  the  plain, 

The  summer  wind  sings  in  my  hair; 

Once  again  I  hear  the  wild  crane 

Crying  out  of  the  steaming  air; 

White  clouds  are  adrift  on  the  breeze, 

The  flowers  nod  under  my  feet, 

And  under  my  thighs,  'twixt  my  knees, 

Again  as  of  old  I  can  feel 

The  roll  of  Ladrone's  firm  muscles,  the  reel 

Of  his  chest — see  the  thrust  of  fore-limb 

And  hear  the  dull  trample  of  heel. 

We  thunder  behind  the  mad  herd. 
My  singing  whip  swirls  like  a  snake. 
Hurrah!     We  swoop  on  like  a  bird. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  23 

With  my  pony's  proud  record  at  stake — 
For  the  shaggy,  swift  leader  has  stride 
Like  the  last  of  a  long  kingly  line; 
Her  eyes  flash  fire  through  her  hair; 
She  tosses  her  head  in  disdain; 
Her  mane  streams  wide  on  the  air — 
She  leads  the  swift  herd  of  the  plain 
As  a  wolf-leader  leads  his  gaunt  pack, 
On  the  slot  of  the  desperate  deer — 
Their  exultant  eyes  savagely  shine. 

But  down  on  her  broad  shining  back 
Stings  my  lash  like  a  rill  of  red  flame — 
Huzzah,  my  wild  beauty!     Your  best; 
Will  you  teach  my  Ladrone  a  new  pace? 
Will  you  break  his  proud  heart  in  a  shame 
By  spurning  the  dust  in  his  face? 
The  herd  falls  behind  and  Is  lost, 
As  we  race  neck  and  neck,  stride  and  stride. 
Again  the  long  lash  hisses  hot 
Along  the  gray  mare's  glassy  hide — 
Aha,  she  is  lost!  she  does  not  respond. 
Now  I  lean  to  the  ear  of  my  roan 
And  shout— letting  fall  the  light  rein. 
Like  a  hound  from  the  leash,  my  Ladrone 
Swoops  ahead. 
We're  alone  on  the  plain! 

Ah!  how  the  thought  at  wild  living  comes  back! 

Alone  on  the  wide,  solemn  prairie 

I  ride  with  my  rifle  in  hand, 

My  eyes  on  the  watch  for  the  wary 

And  beautiful  antelope  band. 

Or  sleeping  at  night  in  the  grasses,  I  hear 

Ladrone  grazing  near  in  the  gloom. 

His  listening  head  on  the  sky 

I  see  etched  complete  to  the  ear. 

From  the  river  below  comes  the  boom 

Of  the  bittern,  the  thrill  and  the  cry 

Of  frogs  in  the  pool,  and  the  shrill  cricket's  chime, 

Making  ceaseless  and  marvelous  rhyme. 


24  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

But  what  of  his  fate?    Did  he  die 
When  the  terrible  tempest  was  done? 
When  he  staggered  with  you  to  the  light, 
And  your  fight  with  the  Norther  was  won, 
Did  he  live  a  guest  evermore? 
No,  friend,  not  so.    I  sold  him — outright. 

What!  sold  your  preserver,  your  mate,  he  who 

Through,  wind  and  wild  snow  and  deep  night 

Brought  you  safe  to  a  shelter  at  last? 

Did  you,  when  the  danger  had  end, 

Forget  your  dumb  hero — your  friend? 

Forget!     no,  nor  can  I.    Why,  man, 

It's  little  you  know  of  such  love 

As  I  felt  for  him!     You  think  that  you  feel 

The  same  deep  regard  for  your  span, 

Blanketed,  shining,  and  clipped  to  the  heel, 

But  my  horse  was  companion  and  guard — 

My  playmate,  my  ship  on  the  sea 

Of  dun  grasses — in  all  kinds  of  weather, 

Unhorsed  and  hungry  and  sometimes,  he 

Served  me  for  love  and  needed  no  tether. 

No,  I  do  not  forget;  but  who 

Is  the  master  of  fortune  and  fate? 

Who  does  as  he  wishes  and  not  as  he  must? 

When!  sold  my  preserver,  my  mate, 

My  faithfulest  friend — man,  I  wept. 

Yes,  I  own  it.    His  faithful  eyes 

Seemed  to  ask  what  it  meant. 

And  he  kept  them  fixed  on  me  in  startled  surprise, 

As  another  hand  led  him  away. 

And  the  last  that  I  heard  of  my  roan, 

Was  the  sound  of  his  shrill,  pleading  neigh! 

Oh  magic  west  wind  of  the  mountain, 
Oh  steed  with  the  stinging  main, 
In  sleep  I  draw  rein  at  the  fountain, 
And  wake  with  a  shiver  of  pain; 
For  the  heart  and  the  heat  of  the  city 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  25 

Are  walls  and  prison's  chain. 

Lost  my  Ladrone — gone  the  wild  living — 

I  dream,  but  my  dreaming  is  vain. 

Hamlin  Garland's  parents  were  of  Scotch  Presbyterian 
descent  and  were  strict  in  their  management  of  their  children, 
but  their  lives  were  most  wholesome  and  they  were  withal 
companionable.  Their  sacrifice  and  toil  have  been  rewarded 
by  the  response  their  son  has  made  to  the  opportunities  they 
could  offer  him. 

Besides  the  rural  school  training  at  Burr  Oak,  Iowa,  Mr. 
Garland  received  additional  education  at  Cedar  Valley  Semin- 
ary at  Osage,  where  he  attended  school  during  the  winter  sea- 
sons. He  graduated  from  this  school  in  1881  and  then  for  a 
year  travelled  through  the  eastern  states.  His  people  later 
settled  in  Brown  county,  Dakota,  and  he  visited  them  there  in 
1883. 

In  1884  he  went  to  Boston,  where  he  came  under  the  In- 
fluence of  Professor  Moses  True  Brown  of  the  Boston  School  of 
Oratory,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  William  Dean  Howells,  Ed- 
ward Everett  Hale,  and  Edwin  Booth. 

.Mr.  Garland  began  his  career  as  an  author  with  the  publi- 
cation of  his  poem,  "Lost  in  a  Norther,"  in  Harper's  Weekly. 
For  this  poem  he  received  twenty-five  dollars.  His  work  has 
been  unusually  remunerative.  He  has  been  a  popular  con- 
tributor to  the  Century  Magazine,  the  Youth's  Companion,  the 
Arena,  and  other  magazines.  His  first  book  was  published  in 
1890.  Mr.  Garland  enjoys  social  life  and  outdoor  sports  very 
much.  He  was  the  founder  and  is  still  the  president  of  the 
Cliff  Dwellers'  Club  in  Chicago.  He  is  especially  fond  of  the 
outdoor  sports  of  swimming,  skating,  and  riding  the  trail  on 
the  plains  and  the  mountains.  The  joy  in  this  last  is  expressed 
in  a  poem  which  is  given  later. 

Mr.  Garland's  publications  include  short  stories,  novels, 
essays,  and  poems.  These  book  publications  began  with  the 
short  stories,  Main  Travelled  Roads,  in  1890.  Since  then  have 
appeared  Jason  Edwards,  1891;  A  Member  of  the  Third  House, 
an  exposure  of  political  corruption,  1892;  A  Spoil  of  Office, 
1892;  Prairie  Folks,  Prairie  Songs  and  Crumbling  Idols,  a 
series  of  critical  essays,  1893;  Rose  of  Dutcher's  Coolly,  a  nov- 
el, 1895;  Wayside  Courtships,  1897;  a  Biography  of  Ulysses  S. 
Grant,  1898;  the  Trail  of  the  Gold  Seekers  and  Boy  Life  on  the 
Prairie,  1899;  the  Eagle's  Heart,  1900;  Her  Mountain  Lover,  a 
novel,  1901;  The  Captain  of  the  Gray  Horse  Troop,  another 
novel,  1902;  Hesper,  1903;  The  Tyranny  of  the  Dark,  a  study 
In  psychic  research,  1905;  The  Long  Trail,  1907;  the  Shadow 
World,  another  study  in  the  psychic  field,  1908;  The  Moccassin 
Ranch,  1909;  Cavanagh,  Forest  Ranger,  a  study  in  forest  pres- 
ervation, 1911;  Victor  Olnee's  Discipline,  1911;  The  Forest 
Daughter,  1913;  and  They  of  the  High  Trails,  1916. 


26  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

THE  TOIL  OF  THE  TRAIL 

What  have  I  gained  by  the  toil  of  the  trail? 
I  know  and  know  well. 
I  have  found  once  again  the  lore  I  had  lost 
In  the  loud  cities'  hell. 

I  have  broadened  my  hand  to  the  cinch  and  the  axe, 

I  have  laid  my  flesh  to  the  rain; 

I  was  hunter  and  trailer  and  guide; 

I  have  touched  the  most  primitive  wildness  again. 

I  have  threaded  the  wild  with  the  stealth  of  the  deer, 

No  eagle  is  freer  than  I; 

No  mountain  can  thwart  me,  no  torrent  appall. 

I  defy  the  stern  sky. 

So  long  as  I  live  these  joys  will  remain, 

I  have  touched  the  most  primitive  wildness  again. 

THE  BLUE  JAY 

His  eyes  are  bright  as  burnished  steel, 
His  note  a  quick,  defiant  cry; 
Harsh  as  a  hinge  his  grating  squeal 
Sounds  from  the  keen  wind  sweeping  by. 
Rains  never  dim  his  smooth  blue  coat, 
The  cold  winds  never  trouble  him, 
No  fog  puts  hoarseness  in  his  throat, 
Or  makes  his  merry  eyes  grow  dim. 

His  call  at  dawning  is  a  shout, 
His  wing  is  subject  to  his  heart; 
Of  fear  he  knows  not — doubt 
Did  not  draw  his  sailing-chart. 

He  is  an  universal  emigre, 

His  foot  is  set  in  every  land ; 

He  greets  me  by  gray  Casco  Bay 

And  laughs  across  the  Texas  sand. 

In  heat  or  cold,  in  storm  and  sun, 

He  lives  undauntedly;  and  when  he  dies, 

He  folds  his  feet  up  one  by  one 

And  turns  his  last  look  on  the  skies. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  27 

He  is  the  true  American.    He  fears 

No  journey  and  no  wood  or  wall — 

And  in  the  desert,  toiling  voyagers 

Take  heart  or  courage  from  his  jocund  call. 

POM-POM  PULL-AWAY. 

Out  on  the  snow  the  boys  are  springing, 
Shouting  blithely  at  ^their  play; 
Through  the  night  their  voices  ringing, 
Sound  the  cry  "Pom,  pull-away!" 
Up  the  sky  the  round  moon  stealing, 
Trails  a  robe  of  shimmering  white: 
While  the  Great  Bear  slowly  wheeling 
Marks  the  pole-star's  steady  light. 

The  air  with  frost  is  keen  and  stinging, 
Spite  of  cap  and  muffler  gay; 
Big  boys  whistle,  girls  are  singing — 
Loud  rings  out,  "Pom,  pull-away!" 
Oh,  the  phrase  has  magic  in  it, 
Sounding  through  the  moon-lit  air! 
And  in  'bout  a  half-a-minute 
I  am  part  and  parcel  there. 

'Cross  the  pond  I  once  more  scurry 
Through  the  thickest  of  the  fray, 
Sleeve  ripped  off  by  Andy  Murray — 
"Let  her  rip — Pom,  pull-away!" 
Mother'll  mend  it  in  the  morning 
(Dear  old  patient,  smiling  face!) 
One  more  darn  my  sleeve  adorning — 
"Whoop  her  up!" — is  no  disgrace. 

Moonbeams  on  the  snow  a-splinter, 
Air  that  stirred  the  blood  like  wine — 
What  cared  we  for  cold  of  winter? 
What  for  maiden's  soft  eyes'  shine? 
Give  us  but  a  score  of  skaters 
And  the  cry,  "Pom,  pull-away!" 
We  were  always  girl  beraters — 
Forgot  them  wholly,  sooth  to  say! 


28  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

O  voices  through  the  night  air  ringing! 
O,  thoughtless,  happy,  boist'rous  play! 

0  silver  clouds  the  keen  wind  winging; 
At  the  cry,  "Pom,  pull-away!" 

1  pause  and  dream  with  keenest  longing 
For  the  starlit  magic  night, 

For  my  noisy  playmates  thronging, 
And  the  slow  moon's  trailing  light 


THE  OLD  FASHIONED  THRESHING  IN  GREEN'S  COOLLY, 
WISCONSIN 

From   "BOY  UFE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE."     Published  by  permission 
of  Harper  Bros. 

Life  on  a  Wisconsin  farm,  even  for  the  older  lads, 
had  its  compensations.  There  were  times  when  the  daily 
routine  of  lonely  and  monotonous  life  gave  place  to  an 
agreeable  bustle  for  a  few  days,  and  human  intercourse 
lightened  toil.  In  the  midst  of  the  dull,  slow  progress  of 
the  fall's  ploughing,  the  gathering  of  the  threshing  crew 
was  a  most  dramatic  event. 

There  had  been  great  changes  in  the  methods  of  thresh- 
ing since  Mr.  Stewart  had  begun  to  farm,  but  it  had  not 
yet  reached  the  point  where  steam  displaced  the  horse- 
power ;  and  the  grain,  after  being  stacked  round  the  barn 
ready  to  be  threshed,  was  allowed  to  remain  until  late  in 
the  fall  before  calling  in  a  machine. 

Of  course,  some  farmers  got  at  it  earlier,  for  all  could 
not  thresh  at  the  same  time,  and  a  good  part  of  the  fall's 
labor  consisted  in  "changing  works"  with  the  neighbors, 
thus  laying  up  a  stock  of  unpaid  labor  ready  for  the  home 
job.  Day  after  day,  therefore,  Mr.  Stewart  and  the  hired 
man  shouldered  their  forks  in  "the  crisp  and  early  dawn 
and  went  to  help  their  neighbors,  while  the  boys  ploughed 
the  stubble-land. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  29 

All  through  the  months  of  October  and  November, 
the  ceaseless  ringing  hum  and  the  bow-ouw,  ouw-woo 
booee-oom  of  the  great  balance  wheel  of  the  threshing- 
machine,  and  the  deep  bass  hum  of  the  whirling  cylinder, 
as  its  motion  rose  and  fell,  could  be  heard  on  every  side 
like  the  singing  of  some  sullen  and  gigantic  autumnal 
insect. 

For  weeks  Lincoln  had  looked  forward  to  the  com- 
ing of  the  threshers  with  the  greatest  eagerness,  and  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  the  day  appointed,  Owen  and  he  hung 
on  the  gate  and  gazed  down  the  road  to  see  if  the  machine 
were  coming.  It  did  not  come  during  the  afternoon — 
still  they  could  not  give  it  up,  and  at  the  falling  of  dusk 
still  hoped  to  hear  the  rattle  of  its  machinery. 

It  was  not  uncommon  for  the  men  who  attended  to 
these  machines  to  work  all  day  at  one  place  and  move  to 
another  setting  at  night.  In  that  way,  they  might  not 
arrive  until  9  o'clock  at  night,  or  they  might  come  at 
4  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  children  were  about 
starting  to  " climb  the  wooden  hill"  when  they  heard  the 
peculiar  rattle  of  the  cylinder  and  the  voices  of  the  Mc- 
Turgs,  singing. 

" There  they  are,"  said  Mr.  Stewart,  getting  the  old 
square  lantern  and  lighting  the  candle  within.  The  air 
was  sharp,  and  the  boys,  having  taken  off  their  boots, 
could  only  stand  at  the  window  and  watch  the  father  as 
he  went  out  to  show  the  men  where  to  set  the  " power," 
the  dim  light  throwing  fantastic  shadows  here  and  there, 
lighting  up  a  face  now  and  then,  and  bringing  out  the 
thresher,  which  seemed  a  silent  monster  to  the  children, 
who  flattened  their  noses  against  the  window-panes  to 
be  sure  that  nothing  should  escape  them.  The  men's  voices 
sounded  cheerfully  in  the  still  night,  and  the  roused  tur- 
keys in  the  oaks  peered  about  on  their  perches,  black  sil- 


30  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

liouettes  against  the  sky.  The  children  would  gladly 
have  stayed  up  to  greet  the  threshers,  who  were  captains 
of  industry  in  their  eyes,  but  they  were  ordered  off  to 
bed  by  Mrs.  Stewart,  who  said,  "  You'  must  go  to  sleep 
in  order  to  be  up  early  in  the  morning."  As  they  lay 
there  in  their  beds  under  the  sloping  rafter  roof,  they 
heard  the*  hand  riding  furiously  away  to  tell  some  of  the 
neighbors  that  the  threshers  had  come.  They  could  hear 
the  cackle  of  the  hens  as  Mr.  Stewart  assaulted  them  and 
wrung  their  innocent  necks.  The  crash  of  the  "sweeps" 
being  unloaded  sounded  loud  and  clear  in  the  night,  and 
so  watching  the  dance  of  the  lights  and  shadows  cast  by 
the  lantern  on  the  plastered  wall,  they  fell  asleep. 

They  were  awakened  next  morning  by  the  ringing 
beat  of  the  iron  sledge  as  the  men  drove  stakes  to  hold 
the  "power"  to  the  ground.  The  rattle  of  chains,  the 
clang  of  iron  bars,  intermixed  with  laughter  and  snatches 
of  song,  came  sharply  through  the  frosty  air.  The  smell 
of  sausages  being  fried  in  the  kitchen,  the  rapid  tread  of 
their  busy  mother  as  she  hurried  the  breakfast  forward, 
warned  the  boys  that  it  was  time  to  get  up,  although  it 
was  not  yet  dawn  in  the  east,  and  they  had  a  sense  of  be- 
ing awakened  to  a  strange,  new  world.  When  they  got 
down  to  breakfast,  the  men  had  finished  their  coffee  and 
were  out  in  the  stock-yard  completing  preparations. 

This  morning  experience  was  superb.  Though  shivery 
and  cold  in  the  faint  frosty  light  of  the  day,  the  children 
enjoyed  every  moment  of  it  The  frost  lay  white  on  every 
surface,  the  frozen  ground  rang  like  iron  under  the  steel- 
shod  feet  of  the  horses,  the  breath  of  the  men  rose  up  in 
little  white  puffs  while  they  sparred  playfully  or  rolled 
each  other  on  the  ground  in  jovial  clinches  of  legs  and 
arms. 


•The  hired  man. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  31 

The  young  men  were  anxiously  waiting  the  first  sound 
which  should  rouse  the  countryside  and  proclaim  that 
theirs  was  the  first  machine  to  be  at  work.  The  older 
men  stood  in  groups,  talking  politics  or  speculating  on 
the  price  of  wheat,  pausing  occasionally  to  slap  their 
hands  about  their  breasts. 

Finally,  just  as  the  east  began  to  bloom  and  long 
streamers  of  red  began  to  unroll  along  the  vast  gray  dome 
of  sky,  Joe  Oilman — " Shouting  Joe,'*  as  he  was  called— 
mounted  one  of  the  stacks,  and  throwing  down  the 
cap-sheaf,  lifted  his  voice  in  a  "Chippewa  warwhoop."  On 
a  still  morning  like  this  his  voice  could  be  heard  three 
miles.  Long  drawn  and  musical,  it  sped  away  over  the 
fields,  announcing  to  all  the  world  that  the  McTurgs  were 
ready  for  the  race.  Answers  came  back  faintly  from  the 
frosty  fields,  where  the  dim  figures  of  laggard  hands  could 
be  seen  hurrying  over  the  ploughland ;  then  David  called 
"All  right,"  and  the  machine  began  to  hum. 

In  those  days  the  machine  was  a  J.  I.  Case  or  a  "Buf- 
falo Pits"  separator,  and  was  moved  by  five  pairs  of 
horses  attached  to  a  power  staked  to  the  ground,  round 
which  they  travelled  to  the  left,  pulling  at  the  ends  of 
long  levers  or  sweeps.  The  power  was  planted  some  rods 
away  from  the  machine,  to  which  the  force  was  carried 
by  means  of  "tumbling  rods,"  with  "knuckle  joints." 
The  driver  stood  upon  a  platform  above  the  huge,  savage, 
cog-wheels  round  which  the  horses  moved,  and  he  was  a 
great  figure  in  the  eyes  of  the  boys. 

Driving  looked  like  an  easy  job,  but  it  was  not.  It  was 
very  tiresome  to  stand  on  that  small  platform  all  through 
the  long  day  of  the  early  fall,  and  on  cold  November 
mornings  when  the  cutting  wind  roared  over  the  plain, 
sweeping  the  dust  and  leaves  along  the  road.  It  was  far 
pleasanter  to  sit  on  the  south  side  of  the  stack,  as  Tommy 


32  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

did,  and  watch  the  horses  go  round.  It  was  necessary 
also  for  the  driver  to  be  a  man  of  good  judgment,  for  the 
power  must  be  kept  just  to  the  right  speed,  and  he  should 
be  able  to  gauge  the  motion  of  the  cylinder  by  the  pitch 
of  its  deep  bass  hum.  There  were  always  three  men  who 
went  with  the  machine  and  were  properly  "the  thresh- 
ers. ' '  One  acted  AS  driver ;  the  others  were  respectively 
"feeder"  and  " tender ";  one  of  them  fed  the  grain  into 
the  rolling  cylinder,  while  the  other,  oil-can  in  hand, 
" tended "  the  separator.  The  feeder's  position  was  the 
high  place  to  which  all  boys  aspired,  and  they  used  to 
stand  in  silent  admiration  watching  the  easy,  powerful 
swing  of  David  McTurg  as  he  caught  the  bundles  in  the 
crook  of  his  arm,  and  spread  them  out  into  a  broad, 
smooth  band  upon  which  the  cylinder  caught  and  tore 
like  some  insatiate  monster,  and  David  was  the  ideal  man 
in  Lincoln's  eyes,  and  to  be  able  to  feed  a  threshing  ma- 
chine, the  highest  honor  in  the  world.  The  boy  who  was 
chosen  to  cut  bands  went  to  his  post  like  a  soldier  to 
dangerous  picket  duty. 

Sometimes  David  would  take  one  of  the  small  boys 
upon  his  stand,  where  he  could  see  the  cylinder  whiz  while 
flying  wheat  stung  his  face.  Sometimes  the  driver  would 
invite  Tommy  on  the  power  to  watch  the  horses  go  round, 
and  when  he  became  dizzy  often  took  the  youngster  in  his 
arms  and  running  out  along  the  moving  sweep,  threw  him 
with  a  shout  into  David's  arms. 

The  boys  who  were  just  old  enough  to  hold  sacks  for 
the  measurer,  did  not  enjoy  threshing  so  well,  but  to  Lin- 
coln and  his  mates  it  was  the  keenest  joy.  They  wished 
it  would  never  end. 

The  wind  blew  cold  and  the  clouds  were  flying  across 
the  bright  blue  sky,  the  .straw  glistened  in  the  sun,  the 
machine  howled,  the  dust  flew,  the  whip  cracked,  and 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  33 

the  men  worked  like  beavers  to  get  the  sheaves  to  the 
feeder,  and  to  keep  the  straw  and  wheat  away  from  the 
tail-end  of  the  machine.  These  fellows,  wallowing  to 
their  waists  in  the  chaff,  did  so  for  the  amusement  of  the 
boys,  and  for  no  other  reason. 

They  were  always  amused  by  the  man  who  stood  in 
the  midst  of  the  thick  dust  and  the  flying  chaff  at  the 
head  of  the  stacker,  who  took  and  threw  away  the  end- 
less cataract  of  straw  as  if  it  were  all  play.  His  teeth 
shown  like  those  of  a  negro  out  of  his  dust  blackened  face, 
and  his  shirt  was  wet  with  sweat,  but  he  motioned  for  more 
straw,  and  the  feeder,  accepting  the  challenge,  motioned 
for  more  speed,  and  so  the  driver  swung  his  lash  and 
yelled  at  the  straining  horses,  the  pitchers  buckled  to, 
the  sleepy  growl  of  the  cylinder  rose  to  a  howl,  the  wheat 
rushed  out  in  a  stream  as  "big  as  a  stove-pipe,"  and  the 
carriers  were  forced  to  trot  back  and  forth  from  the  gran- 
ary like  mad,  and  to  generally  "hump  themselves"  in 
order  to  keep  the  grain  from  piling  up  around  the  meas- 
urer where  Ellis  stood  disconsolately  holding  sacks  for 
old  man  Smith. 

When  the  children  got  tired  of  wallowing  in  the  straw, 
and  with  turning  somersaults  therein,  they  went  down 
to  help  Rover  catch  the  rats  which  were  uncovered  by 
the  pitchers  when  they  reached  the  stack  bottom.  It  was 
all  play  to  Lincoln,  just  as  it  had  once  been  to  the  others. 
The  horses,  with  their  straining,  outstretched  necks,  the 
loud  and  cheery  shouts,  the  whistling  of  the  driver,  the 
roar  and  hum  of  the  machinery,  the  flourishing  of  the 
forks,  the  supple  movements  of  the  brawny  arms,  the 
shouts  of  the  threshers  to  one  another,  all  blended  with 
the  wild  sound  of  the  wind  overhead  in  the  creaking 
branches  of  the  oaks,  formed  a  splendid  drama  for  his 
recording  brain. 


34  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

But  for  the  boy  who  was  forced  to  stand  with  old 
Daddy  Smith  in  the  flying  dust  beside  the  machine,  it 
was  a  bad  play.  He  was  a  part  of  the  machine — of  the 
crew.  His  liberty  to  come  and  go  was  gone.  When 
Daddy  was  grinning  at  him  out  of  the  gray  dust  and 
the  swirling  chaff,  the  wheat  beards  were  crawling  down 
his  back,  scratching  and  rasping.  His  ears  were  stunned 
by  the  noise  of  the  cylinder  and  the  howl  of  the  balance- 
wheel,  and  it  did  not  help  him  any  to  have  the  old  man 
say  in  a  rasping  voice,  "Never  mind  the  chaff,  sonny- 
it  ain't  pizen." 

Whirr — bang !  Something  had  gone  into  the  cylinder, 
making  the  feeder  dodge  to  .escape  the  flying  teeth,  and 
the  men  seized  the  horses  to  stop  the  machine.  The  men 
then  hailed  such  accidents  with  delight,  for  it  afforded 
them  a  few  minutes'  rest  while  the  crew  put  some  new 
teeth  in  the  "concave."  They  had  time  to  unbutton  their 
shirts  and  get  some  of  the  beards  out  of  their  necks,  to 
take  a  drink  of  water,  and  to  let  the  deafness  go  out  of 
their  ears. 

At  such  times  also  some  of  the  young  fellows  were 
sure  to  have  a  wrestling  or  a  lifting  match,  and  all  kinds 
of  jokes  flew  about.  The  man  at  the  straw-stack  leaned 
indolently  on  his  fork  and  asked  the  feeder  sarcastically 
if  that  was  the  best  he  could  do,  and  remarked,  "It's 
gettin'  chilly  up  here.  Guess  I'll  have  to  go  home  and 
get  my  kid  gloves." 

To  this  David  laughingly  responded,  "I'll  warm  your 
carcass  with  a  rope  if  you  don't  shut  up,"  all  of  which 
gave  the  boys  infinite  delight. 

But  the  work  began  again,  and  Ellis  was  forced  to  take 
his  place  as  regularly  as  the  other  men.  As  the  sun 
neared  the  zenith,  he  looked  often  up  to  it — so  often  in 
fact  that  Daddy,  observing  it,  cackled  in  great  amuse- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  35 

ment,  " Think  you  c'n  hurry  it  along,  sonny?  The  watched 
pot  never  boils,  remember!" — which  made  the  boy  so 
angry  he  nearly  kicked  the  old  man  on  the  shin. 

But  at  last  the  call  for  dinner  sounded,  the  driver 
began  to  shout,  "Whoa  there,  boys,"  to  the  teams  and  to 
hold  his  long  whip  before  their  eyes  in  order  to  con- 
vince them  that  he  really  meant  "Whoa."  The  pitchers 
stuck  their  forks  down  in  the  stack  and  leaped  to  the 
ground;  Billy,  the  band-cutter,  drew  from  his  wrist  the 
string  of  his  big  knife ;  the  men  slid  down  from  the  straw- 
pile  and  a  race  began  among  the  teamsters  to  see  who 
should  be  first  unhitched  and  at  the  watering  trough  and 
at  the  table. 

It  was  always  a  splendid  and  dramatic  moment  to  the 
boys  as  the  men  crowded  round  the  well  to  wash,  shout- 
ing, joking,  cuffing  each  other,  sloshing  themselves  with 
water,  and  accusing  each  other  of  having  blackened  the 
towel  by  using  it  to  wash  with  rather  than  to  wipe  with. 

Mrs.  Stewart  and  the  hired  girl,  and  generally  some 
of  the  neighbors'  wives  (who  changed  "works"  also) 
stood  ready  to  bring  on  the  food  as  soon  as  the  men  were 
seated.  The  table  had  been  lengthened  to  its  utmost  and 
pieced  out  with  the  kitchen  table,  which  usually  was  not 
of  the  same  height,  and  planks  had  been  laid  for  seats  on 
stout  kitchen  chairs  at  each  side.  The  men  came  in  with 
noisy  rush  and  took  seats  wherever  they  could  find  them, 
and  their  attack  on  "biled  taters  and  chicken"  should 
have  been  appalling  to  the  women,  but  it  was  not.  They 
smiled  to  see  them  eat.  A  single  slash  at  a  boiled  potato, 
followed  by  two  motions,  and  it  disappeared.  Grimy  fin- 
gers lifted  a  leg  of  chicken  to  a  wide  mouth,  and  two 
snaps  laid  it  bare  as  a  slate  pencil.  To  the  children 
standing  in  the  corner  waiting,  it  seemed  that  every 
smitch  of  the  dinner  was  going  and  that  nothing  would 


36  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

be  left  when  the  men  got  through,  but  there  was,  for  food 
was  plentiful. 

At  last  even  the  "gantest"  of  them  filled  up.  Even 
Len  had  his  limits,  and  something  remained  for  the  chil- 
dren and  the  women,  who  sat  down  at  the  second  table, 
while  David  and  William  and  Len  returned  to  the  ma- 
chine to  put  everything  in  order,  to  sew  the  belts,  or  take 
a  bent  tooth  out  of  the  "concave."  Len,  however,  man- 
aged to  return  two  or  three  times  in  order  to  have  his 
jokes  with  the  hired  girl,  who  enjoyed  it  quite  as  much  as 
he  did. 

In  the  short  days  of  October  only  a  brief  nooning  was 
possible,  and  as  soon  as  the  horses  had  finished  their  oats, 
the  roar  and  hum  of  the  machine  began  again  and  con- 
tinued steadily  all  afternoon.  Owen  and  Rover  continued 
their  campaign  upon  the  rats  which  inhabited  the  bottom 
of  the  stacks  and  great  was  their  excitement  as  the  men 
reached  the  last  dozen  sheaves.  Rover  barked  and  Owen 
screamed  half  in  fear  and  half  from  a  boy's  savage  delight 
in  killing  things,  and  very  few  rats  escaped  their  com- 
bined efforts. 

To  Ellis  the  afternoon  seemed  endless.  His  arms  grew 
tired  with  holding  the  sacks  against  the  lip  of  the -half 
bushel,  and  his  fingers  grew  sore  with  the  rasp  of  the 
rough  canvas  out  of  which  the  sacks  were  made.  When 
he  thought  of  the  number  of  times  he  must  repeat  these 
actions,  his  heart  was  numb  with  weariness. 

All  things  have  an  end !  By  and  by  the  sun  grew  big 
and  red,  night  began  to  fall  and  the  wind  to  die  down. 
Through  the  falling  gloom  the  machine  boomed  steadily 
with  a  new  sound,  a  sort  of  solemn  roar,  rising  at  inter- 
vals to  a  rattling  yell  as  the  cylinder  ran  empty.  The 
men  were  working  silently,  sullenly,  moving  dim  and 
strange ;  the  pitchers  on  the  stack,  the  feeder  on  the  plat- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  37 

form,  and  especially  the  workers  on  the  high  straw-pile, 
seemed  afar  off  to  Lincoln's  eyes.  The  gray  dust  covered 
the  faces  of  those  near  by,  changing  them  into  something 
mysterious  and  sad.  At  last  he  heard  the  welcome  cry, 
"Turn  out!"  The  men  raised  glad  answer  and  threw 
aside  their  forks. 

Again  came  the  gradual  slowing  down  of  the  motion, 
while  the  driver  called  in '  a  gentle,  soothing  voice : 
"Whoa,  lads!  Steady,  boys,  Whoa,  now!"  But  the 
horses  had  been  going  on  so  long  and  so  steadily  that 
they  checked  their  speed  with  difficulty.  The  men  slid 
from  the  stacks,  and  seizing  the  ends  of  the  sweeps,  held 
them;  but  even  after  the  power  was  still,  the  cylinder 
went  on,  until  David,  calling  for  a  last  sheaf,  threw  it  in 
its  open  maw,  choking  it  into  silence. 

Then  came  the  sound  of  dropping  chains  and  iron 
rods,  and  the  thud  of  the  hoofs  as  the  horses  walked  with 
laggard  gait  and  down-falling  heads  to  the  barn.  The  men 
were  more  subdued  than  at  dinner,  washing  with  greater 
care,  brushing  the  dust  from  their  beards  and  clothes. 
The  air  was  still  and  cool,  the  wind  was  gone,  the  sky 
deep,  cloudless  blue. 

The  evening  meal  was  more  attractive  to  the  boys 
than  dinner.  The  table  was  lighted  with  a  kerosene 
lamp,  and  the  clean  white  linen,  the  fragrant  dishes,  the 
women  flying  about  with  steaming  platters,  all  seemed 
very  dramatic,  very  cheering  to  Lincoln  as  well  as  to  the 
men  who  came  into  the  light  and  warmth  with  aching 
muscles  and  empty  stomach. 

There  was  always  a  good  deal  of  talk  at  supper,  but 
it  was  gentler  than  at  the  dinner  hour.  The  younger  fel- 
lows had  their  jokes,  of  course,  and  watched  the  hired 
girl  attentively,  while  the  old  fellows  discussed  the  day's 
yield  of  grain  and  the  matters  of  the  township.  Ellis  was 


38  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

now  allowed  a  place  at  the  first  table  like  a  first-class 
hand. 

The  pie  and  the  doughnuts  and  the  coffee  disappeared 
as  fast  as  they  could  be  brought,  which  seemed  to  please 
Mrs.  Stewart,  who  said,  "Goodness  sakes,  yes;  eat  all 
you  want.  They  was  made  to  eat." 

The  men  were  all,  or  nearly  all,  neighbors,  or  hands 
hired  by  the  month,  and  some  were  like  members  of  the 
family.  Mrs.  Stewart  treated  them  all  like  visitors  and 
not  like  hired  help.  .No  one  feared  a  genuine  rudeness 
from  the  other. 

After  they  had  eaten  their  supper  it  was  a  great  pleas- 
ure to  the  boys  to  go  out  to  the  barn  and  shed  (all  won- 
derfully changed  now  to  their  minds  by  the  great  new 
stack  of  straw),  there  to  listen  to  the  stories  or  jolly 
remarks  of  the  men  as  they  curried  their  tired  horses 
munching  busily  at  their  hay,  too  weary  to  move  a  muscle 
otherwise,  but  enjoying  the  rubbing  down  which  the  men 
gave  them  with  wisps  of  straws  held  in  each  hand. 

The  light  from  the  kitchen  was  very  welcome,  and  how 
bright  and  warm  it  was  with  the  mother's  merry  voice 
and  smiling  face  where  the  women  were  moving  to  and 
fro,  and  talking  even  more  busily  than  they  worked. 

Sometimes  in  these  old-fashioned  days,  after  the  sup- 
per table  was  cleared  out  of  the  way,  and  the  men  re- 
turned to  the  house,  an  hour  or  two  of  delicious  merry 
making  ended  the  day.  Perhaps  two  or  three  of  the  sis- 
ters of  the  young  men  had  dropped  in,  and  the  boys  them- 
selves were  in  no  hurry  to  get  home. 

Around  the  fire  the  older  men  sat  to  tell  stories  while 
the  girls  trudged  in  and  out,  finishing  up  the  dishes  and 
getting  the  materials  ready  for  breakfast.  With  speech- 
less content  Lincoln  sat  to  listen  to  stories  of  bears  and 
Indians  and  logging  on  the  Wisconsin,  and  other  tales  of 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  39 

frontier  life,  and  then  at  last,  after  beseeching,  David 
opened  the  violin  box  and  played.  Strange  how  those 
giant  hands  became  supple  to  the  strings  and  bow.  All  day 
they  had  been  handling  the  fierce  straw  or  were  covered 
with  the  grease  and  dirt  of  the  machine,  yet  now  they 
drew  from  the  violin  the  wildest,  wierdest  strains,  thril- 
ling Norse  folk  songs,  Swedish  dances  and  love  ballads, 
mournful,  sensuous,  and  seductive. 

Lincoln  could  not  understand  why  those  tunes  had 
that  sad,  sweet  quality,  but  he  could  sit  and  listen  to 
them  all  night  long. 

Oh,  those  rare  days  and  rarer  nights !  How  fine  they 
were  then — and  how  mellow  they  are  growing  now  as  the 
slow-paced  years  drop  a  golden  mist  upon  them.  From 
this  distance  they  seem  so  near  that  my  heart  aches  to 
relive  them,  but  they  are  so  wholesome  and  so  carefree 
that  the  world  is  poorer  for  the  change. 


GENERAL  CHARLES  KING. 

General  Charles  King  is  no  doubt  Wisconsin's  most  vol- 
uminous writer.  He  was  born  in  Albany,  New  York,  in  1844; 
was  graduated  from  the  United  •  States  Military  Academy  in 
1866:  was  made  captain  of  a  company  of  cavalry  engaged  in 
Indian  warfare  in  1879.  and  was  retired  on  account  of  wounds 
in  June  of  that  year.  He  came  to  Wisconsin  in  1882  as  inspec- 
tor and  instructor  of  the  Wisconsin  National  Guard. 

Besides  serving  in  Indian  warfare,  he  has  also  seen  action 
in  the  Philippine  Islands.  His  military  life  has  been  active 
enough  to  consume  the  energies  of  most  men,  but  not  so  with 
this  soldier.  He  is  the  author  of  more  than  fifty  books,  most 
of  which  deal  with  exciting  and  dramatic  episodes,  which  come 
from  his  pen  with  the  conviction  and  clarity  that  result  only 
from  actual  knowledge  and  observation. 

Perhaps  the  best  known  of  all  his  many  books  are  "The 
Colonel's  Daughter"  and  its  sequel,  "Marion's  Faith."  The  first 
selection  here  given  is  one  frequently  quoted  from  the  latter 
book,  but  the  second  is  from  one  of  his  more  recent  volumes, 
entitled,  "The  Real  Ulysses  S.  Grant,"  and  it  is  characterized 
by  crisp,  clear  statement  and  by  a  feeling  of  intense  sincerity 
and  conviction. 

General  King  is  a  familiar  figure  both  on  the  streets  of  Mil- 
waukee and  in  every  town  in  Wisconsin  that  boasts  a  company 
in  the  National  Guard.  His  erect  carriage  and  his  whole  bear- 
ing indicate  youth  and  strength.  He  is  a  delightful  lecturer,  and 
a  talk  with  him  is  an  experience  that  one  does  not  readily 
forget  He  practically  never  mentions  his  own  exploits,  though 
they  were  many;  but  his  accurate  memory  and  his  excellent 
powers  of  description  are  brought  into  play  when  the  deeds  of 
others  are  concerned. 


BAY'S  RIDE  FOB  LIFE 

From     "MARION'S    FAITH."     Chap.    14.     By    Gen.    Charles    King, 
U.S.A.     Copyright.   1887.   by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co. 

Darkness  has  settled  down  in  the  shadowy  Wyoming 
valley.  By  the  light  of  a  tiny  fire  under  the  bank  some 
twenty  forms  can  be  seen  stretched  upon  the  sand, — they 
are  wounded  soldiers.  A  little  distance  away  are  nine 


GENERAL  CHARLES  KING 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  4a 

others,  shrouded  in  blankets :  they  are  the  dead.  Huddled 
in  confused  and  cowering  group  are  a  few  score  horses, 
many  of  them  sprawled  upon  the  sand  motionless ;  others 
occasionally  struggle  to  rise  or  plunge  about  in  their 
misery.  Crouching  among  the  timber,  vigilant  but  weary, 
dispersed  in  a  big,  irregular  circle  around  the  beleaguered 
bivouac,  some  sixty  soldiers  are  still  on  the  active  list. 
All  around  them,  vigilant  and  vengeful,  lurk  the  Chey- 
ennes.  Every  now  and  then  the  bark  as  of  a  coyote  is 
heard, — a  yelping,  querulous  cry, — and  it  is  answered  far 
across  the  valley  or  down  the  stream.  There  is  no  moon ; 
the  darkness  is  intense,  though  the  starlight  is  clear,  and 
the  air  so  still  that  the  galloping  hoofs  of  the  Cheyenne 
ponies  far  out  on  the  prairie  sound  close  at  hand. 

" That's  what  makes  it  hard/'  says  Ray,  who  is  bend- 
ing over  the  prostrate  form  of  Captain  Wayne.  "If  it 
were  storming  or  blowing,  or  something  to  deaden  the 
hoof-beats,  I  could  make  it  easier;  but  it's  the  only 
chance. ' ' 

The  only  chance  of  what? 

When  the  sun  went  down  upon  Wayne's  timber  cita- 
del, and  the  final  account  of  stock  was  taken  for  the  day, 
it  was  found  that  with  one-fourth  of  the  command,  men 
and  horses,  killed  and  wounded,  there  were  left  not  more 
than  three  hundred  cartridges,  all  told,  to  enable  some 
sixty  men  to  hold  out  until  relief  could  come  against  an 
enemy  who  encircled  them  on  every  side,  and  who  had 
only  to  send  over  to  the  neighboring  reservation — forty 
miles  away — and  get  all  the  cartridges  they  wanted. 

Mr.  -  would  let  their  friends  have  them  to  kill 

'  '  buffalo, ' '  though  Mr.  -  -  knew  there  wasn  't  a  buffalo 
left  within  four  hundred  miles. 

They  could  cut  through,  of  course,  and  race  up  the 
valley  to  find  the  — th,  but  they  would  have  to  leave  the 


44  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

wounded  and  the  dismounted  behind, — to  death  by  tor- 
ture,— so  that  ended  the  matter.  Only  one  thing  re- 
mained. In  some  way — by  some  means — word  must  be 
carried  to  the  regiment.  The  chances  were  ten  to  one 
against  the  couriers  slipping  out.  Up  and  down  the  val- 
ley, out  on  the  prairie  on  both  sides  of  the  stream,  the 
Cheyennes  kept  vigilant  watch.  They  had  their  hated 
enemies  in  a  death-grip,  and  only  waited  the  coming  of 
other  warriors  and  more  ammunition  to  finish  them — as 
the  Sioux  had  finished  Custer.  They  knew,  though  the 
besieged  did  not,  that,  the  v» TV  rvrninu:  before,  the  — th 
had  marched  away  westward,  and  wore  far  from  their 
comrades.  All  they  had  to  do  was  to  prevent  any  one's 
escaping  to  give  warning  of  the  condition  of  things  in 
Wayne's  command.  All,  therefore,  were  on  the  alert,  and 
of  this  there  was  constant  indication.  The  man  or  men 
who  made  the  attempt  would  have  to  run  the  gauntlet. 
The  one  remaining  scout  who  had  been  employed  for 
such  work  refused  the  attempt  as  simply  madness.  He  had 
lived  too  long  among  the  Indians  to  dare  it,  yet  Wayne 
and  Ray  and  Dana  and  Hunter,  and  the  whole  command, 
for  that  matter,  knew  that  some  one  must  try  it.  Who 
was  it  to  be  ? 

There  was  no  long  discussion.  Wayne  called  the  sulk 
ing  scout  a  damned  coward,  which  consoled  him  some 
what,  but  didn't  help  matters.  Ray  had  been  around  the, 
rifle-pits  taking  observations.  Presently  he  returned, 
leading  Dandy  up  near  the  fire, — the  one  sheltered  light 
that  was  permitted. 

"Looks  fine  as  silk,  don't  he?"  he  said,  smoothing  his 
pet's  glossy  neck  and  shoulder,  for  Ray's  groom  had  no 
article  of  religion  which  took  precedence  over  the  duty 
he  owed  the  lieutenant's  horse,  and  no  sooner  was  the  sun 
down  than  he  had  been  grooming  him  as  though  still  in 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  45 

garrison.  "Give  him  all  the  oats  you  can  steal,  Hogan; 
some  of  the  men  must  have  a  hatful  left. " 

Wayne  looked  up  startled. 

"Ray,  I  can't  let  you  go!" 

"There's  no  helping  it.  Some  one  must  go,  and  who 
can  you  send?" 

Even  there  the  captain  noted  the  grammatical  eccen- 
tricity. What  was  surprising  was  that  even  there  he  made 
no  comment  thereon.  He  was  silent.  Ray  had  spoken 
truth.  There  was  no  one  whom  he  could  order  to  risk 
death  in  breaking  his  way  out  since  the  scout  had  said 
'twas  useless.  There  were  brave  men  there  who  would 
gladly  try  it  had  they  any  skill  in  such  matters,  but  that 
was  lacking.  "If  any  man  in  the  company  could  'make 
it,'  that  man  was  Ray."  He  was  cool,  daring,  keen;  he 
was  their  best  and  lightest  rider,  and  no  one  so  well  knew 
the  country  or  better  knew  the  Cheyennes.  Wayne  even 
wished  that  Ray  might  volunteer.  There  was  only  this 
about  it, — the  men  would  lose  much  of  their  grit  with  him 
away.  They  swore  by  him,  and  felt  safe  when  he  was 
there  to  lead  or  encourage.  But  the  matter  was  settled 
by  Ray  himself.  He  was  already  stripping  for  the  race. 

"Get  those  shoes  off,"  he  said  to  the  farrier,  who  came 
at  his  bidding,  and  Dandy  wonderingly  looked  up  from 
the  gunny-sack  of  oats  in  which  he  had  buried  his  nozzle. 
"What  on  earth  could  that  blacksmith  mean  by  tugging 
out  his  shoe-nails?"  was  his  reflection,  though,  like  the 
philosopher  he  was,  he  gave  more  thought  to  his  oats, — 
an  unaccustomed  luxury  just  then. 

There  seemed  nothing  to  be  said  by  anybody.  Wayne 
rose  painfully  to  his  feet.  Hunter  stood  in  silence  by, 
and  a  few  men  grouped  themselves  around  the  little  knot 
of  officers.  Ray  had  taken  off  his  belt  and  was  poking 
out  the  carbine  cartridges  from  the  loops, — there  were 


46  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

not  over  ten.  Then  he  drew  the  revolver,  carefully  ex- 
amined the  chambers  to  see  that  all  were  filled ;  motioned 
with  his  hand  to  those  on  the  ground,  saying,  quietly, 
"Pick  those  up.  Y'all  may  need  every  one  of  'em.''  The 
Blue  Grass  dialect  seemed  cropping  out  the  stronger  for 
his  preoccupation.  "Got  any  spare  Colts?"  he  continued, 
turning  to  Wayne.  "I  only  want  another  round."  These 
he  stowed  as  he  got  them  in  the  smaller  loops  on  the  right 
side  of  his  belt.  Then  he  bent  forward  to  examine  Dandy's 
hoofs  again. 

"Smooth  them  off  as  well  as  you  can.  Get  me  a  little 
of  that  sticky  mud  there,  one  of  you  men.  There!  ram 
that  into  every  hole  and  smooth  off  the  surface.  Make  it 
look  just  as  much  like  a  pony's  as  you  know  how.  They 
can't  tell  Dandy's  tracks  from  their  own  then,  don't  you 
see?" 

Three  or  four  pairs  of  hands  worked  assiduously  to  do 
his  bidding.  Still,  there  was  no  talking.  No  one  had  any- 
thing he  felt  like  saying  just  then. 

"Who's  got  the  time?"  he  asked. 

Wayne  looked  at  his  watch,  bending  down  over  the 
fire. 

"Just  nine  fifteen." 

"All  right.    I  must  be  off  in  ten  minutes.    The  moon 
will  be  up  at  eleven." 

Dandy  had  finished  the  last  of  his  oats  by  this  time, 
and  was  gazing  contentedly  about  him.  Ever  since  quite 
early  in  the  day  he  had  been  in  hiding  down  there  under 
the  bank.  He  had  received  only  one  trifling  clip,  though 
for  half  an  hour  at  least  he  had  been  springing  around 
where  the  bullets  flew  thickest.  He  was  even  pining 
for  his  customary  gallop  over  the  springy  turf,  and  won- 
dering why  it  had  been  denied  him  that  day. 

"Only  a  blanket   and  surcingle,"  said  Ray,   to   his 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  47 

orderly,  who  was  coming  up  with  the  heavy  saddle  and 
bags.  "We're  riding  to  win  tonight,  Dandy  and  I,  and 
must  travel  light. ' ' 

He  flung  aside  his  scouting  hat,  knotted  the  silk  hand- 
kerchief he  took  from  his  throat  so  as  to  confine  the  dark 
hair  that  came  tumbling  almost  into  his  eyes,  buckled  the 
holster-belt  tightly  round  his  waist,  looked  doubtfully  an 
instant  at  his  spurs,  but  decided  to  keep  them  on.  Then 
he  turned  to  Wayne. 

"A  word  with  you,  captain." 

The  others  fell  back  a  short  distance,  and  for  a  moment 
the  two  stood  alone  speaking  in  low  tones.  All  else  was 
silent  except  the  feverish  moan  of  some  poor  fellow  lying 
sorely  wounded  in  the  hollow,  or  the  occasional  pawing 
and  stir  among  the  horses.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  little 
fire  the  others  stood  watching  them.  They  saw  that 
Wayne  was  talking  earnestly,  and  presently  extended  his 
hand,  and  they  heard  Ray,  somewhat  impatiently,  say, 
"Never  mind  that  now,"  and  noted  that  at  first  he  did 
not  take  the  hand;  but  finally  they  came  back  to  the 
group  and  Ray  spoke  : 

"Now,  fellows,  just  listen  a  minute.  I've  got  to  break 
out  on  the  south  side.  I  know  it  better.  Of  course  there 
are  no  end  of  Indians  out  there,  but  most  of  the  crowd  are 
in  the  timber  above  and  below.  There  will  be  plenty  on 
the  watch,  and  it  isn't  possible  that  I  can  gallop  out 
through  them  without  being  heard.  Dandy  and  I  have 
got  to  sneak  for  it  until  we're  spotted,  or  clear  of  them, 
then  away  we  go.  I  hope  to  work  well  out  towards  the 
bluffs  before  they  catch  a  glimpse  of  me,  then  lie  flat  and 
go  for  all  I'm  worth  to  where  we  left  the  regiment.  Then 
you  bet  it  won't  be  long  before  the  old  crowd  will  be 
coming  down  just  a  humping.  I'll  have  'em  here  by  six 
o'clock,  if,  indeed,  I  don't  find  them  coming  ahead  tonight. 


48  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Just  keep  up  your  grit,  and  we  '11  do  our  level  best,  Dandy 
and  I;  won't  we,  old  boy?  Now,  I  want  to  see  Dana  a 
minute  and  the  other  wounded  fellows, ' '  and  he  went  and 
bent  down  over  them,  saying  a  cheery  word  to  each ;  and 
rough,  suffering  men  held  out  feeble  hands  to  take  a 
parting  grip,  and  looked  up  into  his  brave  young  eyes. 
He  had  long  known  how  the  rank  and  file  regarded  him, 
but  had  been  disposed  to  laugh  it  off.  Tonight  as  he 
stopped  to  say  a  cheering  word  to  the  wounded,  and 
looked  down  at  some  pale,  bearded  face  that  had  stood 
at  his  shoulder  in  more  than  one  tight  place  in  the  old 
Apache  days  in  Arizona,  and  caught  the  same  look  of 
faith  and  trust  in  him,  something  like  a  quiver  hovered 
for  a  minute  about  his  lips,  and  his  own  brave  eyes  grew 
moist.  They  knew  he  was  daring  death  to  save  them,  but 
that  was  a  view  of  the  case  that  did  not  seem  to  occur  to 
him  at  all.  At  last  he  came  to  Dana  lying  there  a  little 
apart.  The  news  that  Ray  was  going  to  "ride  for  them" 
had  been  whispered  all  through  the  bivouac  by  this  time, 
and  Dana  turned  and  took  Ray's  hand  in  both  his  own. 

"God  speed  you,  old  boy !  If  you  make  it  all  safe,  get 
word  to  mother  that  I  didn't  do  so  badly  in  my  first  square 
tussle,  will  you?" 

"If  I  make  it,  you'll  be  writing  it  yourself  this  time 
tomorrow  night.  Even  if  I  don't  make  it,  don't  you 
worry,  lad.  The  Colonel  and  Stannard  ain't  the  fellows 
to  let  us  shift  for  ourselves  with  the  country  full  of  Chey- 
ennes.  They'll  be  down  here  in  two  days,  anyhow.  Good- 
by,  Dana;  keep  your  grip  and  we'll  larrup  'em  yet." 

Then  he  turned  back  to  Wayne,  Hunter,  and  the 
doctor. 

"One  thing  occurs  to  me,  Hunter.  You  and  six  or 
eight  men  take  your  carbines  and  go  up-stream  with  a 
dozen  horses  until  you  come  to  the  rifle-pits.  Be  all  ready. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  49 

If  I  get  clear  through  you  won't  hear  any  row,  but  if 
they  sight  or  hear  me  before  I  get  through,  then,  of  course, 
there  will  be  the  biggest  kind  of  an  excitement,  and  you'll 
hear  the  shooting.  The  moment  it  begins,  give  a  yell; 
fire  your  guns,  go  whooping  up  the  stream  with  the  horses 
as  though  the  whole  crowd  were  trying  to  cut  out  that 
way,  but  get  right  back.  The  excitement  will  distract 
them  and  help  me.  Now,  good-by,  and  good  luck  to  you, 
crowd. ' ' 

"Ray,  will  you  have  a  nip  before  you  try  it?  You 
must  be  nearly  used  up  after  this  day's  work."  And  he 
held  out  his  flask  to  him.  .  i 

"No.  I  had  some  hot  coffee  just  ten  minutes  ago,  and 
I  feel  like  a  four-year-old.  I  'm  riding  new  colors ;  didn  't 
you  know  it?  By  jove!"  he  added,  suddenly,  "this  is  my 
first  run  under  the  Preakness  blue. ' '  Even  then  and  there 
he  thought  too  quickly  to  speak  her  name.  "Now  then, 
some  of  you  crawl  out  to  the  south  edge  of  the  timber  with 
me,  and  lie  flat  in  the  prairie  and  keep  me  in  sight  as  long 
as  you  can."  He  took  one  more  look  at  his  revolver.  "I'm 
drawing  to  a  bob-tail.  If  I  fail,  I'll  bluff;  if  I  fill,  I'll 
knock  spots  out  of  any  threes  in  the  Cheyenne  outfit.'* 

Three  minutes  more  and  the  watchers  at  the  edge  of 
the  timber  have  seen  him,  leading  Dandy  by  the  bridle, 
slowly,  stealthily,  creeping  out  into  the  darkness;  a 
moment  the  forms  of  man  and  horse  are  outlined  against 
the  stars :  then  are  swallowed  up  in  the  night.  Hunter 
and  the  sergeants  with  him  grasp  their  carbines  and  lie 
prone  upon  the  turf,  watching,  waiting. 

In  the  bivouac  is  the  stillness  of  death.  Ten  soldiers 
— carbines  in  hand — mounted  on  their  unsaddled  steeds 
are  waiting  in  the  darkness  at  the  upper  rifle-pits  for 
Hunter's  signal.  If  he  shouts,  every  man  is  to  yell  and 
break  for  the  front.  Otherwise,  all  are  to  remain  quiet. 


50  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Back  at  the  watch-fire  under  the  bank  Wayne  is  squatting, 
watch  in  one  hand,  pistol  in  the  other.  Near  by  lie  the 
wounded,  still  as  their  comrades  just  beyond, — the  dead. 
All  around  among  the  trees  and  in  the  sand  pits  up-  and 
down-stream,  fourscore  men  are  listening  to  the  beating 
of  their  own  hearts.  In  the  distance,  once  in  a  while,  is 
heard  the  yelp  of  coyote  or  the  neigh  of  Indian  pony.  In 
the  distance,  too,  are  the  gleams  of  Indian  fires,  but  they 
are  beyond  the  positions  occupied  by  the  besieging  war- 
riors. Darkness  shrouds  them.  Far  aloft  the  stars  are 
twinkling  through  the  cool  and  breezeless  air.  With  wind, 
or  storm,-  or  tempest,  the  gallant  fellow  whom  all  hearts 
are  following  would  have  something  to  favor,  something 
to  aid;  but  in  this  almost  cruel  stillness  nothing  under 
God  can  help  him, — nothing  but  darkness  and  his  own 
brave  spirit. 

"If  I  get  through  this  scrape  in  safety,'*  mutters 
Wayne  between  his  set  teeth,  "the  — th  shall  never  hear 
the  last  of  this  work  of  Ray's." 

"If  I  get  through  this  night,"  mutters  Ray  to  himself, 
far  out  on  the  prairie  now,  where  he  can  hear  tramping 
hoofs  and  gutteral  voices,  "it  will  be  the  best  run  ever 
made  for  the  Sanford  blue,  though  I  do. make  it." 

Nearly  five  minutes  have  passed,  and  the  silence  has 
been  unbroken  by  shot  or  shout.  The  suspense  is  becom- 
ing unbearable  in  the  bivouac,  where  every  man  is  listen- 
ing, hardly  daring  to  draw  breath.  At  last  Hunter,  rising 
to  his  knees,  which  are  all  a-tremble  with  excitement,  mut- 
ters to  Sergeant  Roach,  who  is  still  crouching  beside 
him, — 

"By  Heaven!  I  believe  he'll  slip  through  without 
being  seen." 

Hardly  had  he  spoken  when  far,  far  out  to  the  south- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  51 

west  two  bright  flashes  leap  through  the  darkness.  Before 
the  report  can  reach  them  there  comes  another,  hot  so 
brilliant.  Then,  the  ringing  bang,  bang  of  two  rifles,  the 
answering  crack  of  a  revolver. 

"Quick,  men.  Go!"  yells  Hunter,  and  darts  headlong 
through  the  timber  back  to  the  stream.  There  is  a  sudden 
burst  of  shots  and  yells  and  soldier  cheers ;  a  mighty  crash 
and  sputter  and  thunder  of  hoofs  up  the  stream-bed;  a 
few  of  the  men  at  the  west  end,  yelling  like  demons,  dash 
in  support  of  the  mounted  charge  in  the  bed  of  the  stream. 
For  a  minute  or  two  the  welkin  rings  with  shouts,  shots 
(mainly  those  of  the  startled  Indians),  then  there  is  as 
sudden  a  rush  back  to  cover,  without  a  man  or  horse  hurt 
or  missing.  In  the  excitement  and  darkness  the  Cheyennes 
could  only  fire  wild,  but  now  the  night  air  resounds  with 
taunts  and  yells  and  triumphant  war-whoops.  For  full 
five  minutes  there  is  a  jubilee  over  the  belief  that  they 
have  penned  in  the  white  soldiers  after  their  dash  for 
liberty.  Then,  little  by  little,  the  yells  and  taunts  subside. 
Something  has  happened  to  create  discussion  in  the  Chey- 
enne camps,  for  the  crouching  soldiers  can  hear  the  live- 
liest kind  of  a  pow-wow  far  up-stream.  What  does  it 
mean?  Has  Ray  slipped  through,  or — have  they  caught, 
him? 

Despite  pain  and  weakness,  Wayne  hobbles  out  to 
where  Sergeant  Roach  is  still  watching  and  asks  for 
tidings. 

"I  can't  be  sure,  captain;  one  thing's  certain,  the 
lieutenant  rode  like  a  gale.  I  could  follow  the  shots  a 
full  half-mile  up  the  valley,  where  they  seemed  to  grow 
thicker,  and  then  stop  all  of  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  the 
row  that  was  made  down  here.  They've  either  given  it 
up  and  have  a  big  party  out  in  chase,  or  else  they  've  got 
him.  God  knows  which.  If  they've  got  him,  there'll  be 


52  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

a  scalp-dance  over  there  in  a  few  minutes,  curse  them!" 
And  the  sergeant  choked. 

Wayne  watched  some  ten  minutes  without  avail.  Noth- 
ing further  was  seen  or  heard  that  night  to  indicate  what 
had  happened  to  Ray  except  once.  Far  up  the  valley  he 
saw  a  couple  of  flashes  among  the  bluffs;  so  did  Roach, 
and  that  gave  him  hope  that  Dandy  had  carried  his 
master  in  safety  that  far  at  least. 

He  crept  back  to  the  bank  and  cheered  the  wounded 
with  the  news  of  what  he  had  seen.  Then  another  word 
came  in  ere  long.  An  old  sergeant  had  crawled  out  to  the 
front,  and  could  hear  something  of  the  shouting  and  talk- 
ing of  the  Indians.  He  could  understand  a  few  words  only, 
though  he  had  lived  among  the  Cheyennes  nearly  five 
years.  They  can  barely  understand  one  another  in  the 
dark,  and  use  incessant  gesticulation  to  interpret  theii 
own  speech ;  but  the  sergeant  gathered  that  they  were 
upbraiding  somebody  for  not  guarding  a  coulee,  and  in- 
ferred that  someone  had  slipped  past  their  pickets  or  they 
wouldn't  be  making  such  a  row. 

That  the  Cheyennes  did  not  propose  to  let  the  be- 
sieged derive  much  comfort  from  their  hopes  was  soon 
apparent.  Out  from  the  timber  up  the  stream  came 
sonorous  voices  shouting  taunt  and  challenge,  inter- 
mingled with  the  vilest  expletives  they  had  picked  up 
from  their  cowboy  neighbors,  and  all  the  frontier  slang 
in  the  Cheyenne  vocabulary. 

"Hullo!  sogers;  come  out  some  more  times.  We  no 
shoot.  Stay  there:  we  come  plenty  quick.  Hullo!  white 
chief,  come  fight  fair;  soger  heap  'fraid!  Come,  have 
scalp-dance  plenty  quick.  Catch  white  soldier;  eat  him 
heart  bime  by." 

"Ah,  go  to  your  grandmother,  the  ould  witch  in  hell, 
ye  musthard-sthriped  convict!"  sings  out  some  irrepres- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  53 

sible  Paddy  in  reply,  and  Wayne,  who  is  disposed  to 
serious  thoughts,  would  order  silence,  but  it  occurs  to  him 
that  Mulligan's  crude  sallies  have  a  tendency  to  keep  the 
men  lively. 

"I  can't  believe  they've  got  him,"  he  whispers  to  the 
doctor.  "If  they  had  they  would  soon  recognize  him  as  an 
officer  and  come  bawling  out  their  triumph  at  bagging  a 
chief.  His  watch,  his  shoes,  his  spurs,  his  underclothing, 
would  all  betray  that  he  was  an  officer,  though  he  hasn't 
a  vestige  of  uniform.  Pray  God  he  is  safe!" 

Will  you  follow  Ray  and  see  ?  Curiosity  is  what  lures 
the  fleetest  deer  to  death,  and  a  more  dangerous  path  than 
that  which  Ray  has  taken  one  rarely  follows.  Will  you 
try  it,  reader — just  you  and  I?  Come  on,  then.  We'll 
see  what  our  Kentucky  boy  "got  in  the  draw,"  as  he 
would  put  it. 

Ray's  footfall  is  soft  as  a  kitten's  as  he  creeps  out  upon 
the  prairie;  Dandy  stepping  gingerly  after  him,  wonder- 
ing but  obedient.  For  over  a  hundred  yards  he  goes,  until 
both  up-  and  down-stream  he  can  almost  see  the  faint  fires 
of  the  Indians  in  the  timber.  Farther  out  he  can  hear 
hoof-beats  and  voices,  so  he  edges  along  westward  until 
he  comes  suddenly  to  a  depression,  a  little  winding 
"cooley"  across  the  prairie,  through  which  in  the  early 
spring  the  snows  are  carried  off  from  some  ravine  among 
the  bluffs.  Into  this  he  noiselessly  feels  his  way  and 
Dandy  follows.  He  creeps  along  to  his  left  and  finds  that 
its  general  course  is  from  the  southwest.  He  knows  well 
that  the  best  way  to  watch  for  objects  in  the  darkness  is 
to  lie  flat  on  low  ground  so  that  everything  approaching 
may  be  thrown  against  the  sky.  His  plain-craft  tells  him 
that  by  keeping  in  the  water-course  he  will  be  less  apt  to 
be  seen,  but  will  surely  come  across  some  lurking  Indians. 
That  he  expects.  The  thing  is  to  get  as  far  through  them 


54  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

as  possible  before  being  seen  or  heard,  then  mount  and 
away.  After  another  two  minutes '  creeping  he  peers  over 
the  western  bank.  Now  the  fires  up-stream  can  be  seen 
in  the  timber,  and  dim,  shadowy  forms  pass  and  repass. 
Then  close  at  hand  come  voices  and  hoof-beats.  Dandy 
pricks  up  his  ears  and  wants  to  neigh,  but  Ray  grips  his 
nostrils  like  a  vise,  and  Dandy  desists.  At  rapid  lope, 
within  twenty  yards,  a  party  of  half  a  dozen  warriors  go 
bounding  past  on  their  way  down  the  valley,  and  no 
sooner  have  they  crossed  the  gulley  than  he  rises  and 
rapidly  pushes  on  up  the  dry  sandy  bed.  Thank  heaven ! 
there  are  no  stones.  A  minute  more  and  right  in  front 
of  him,  not  a  stone's  throw  away,  he  hears  the  deep  tones 
of  Indian  voices  in  conversation.  Whoever  they  may  be 
they  are  in  the  "cooley"  and  watching  the  prairie.  They 
can  see  nothing  of  him,  nor  he  of  them.  Pass  them  in  the 
ten-foot-wide  ravine  he  cannot.  He  must  go  back  a  short 
distance,  make  a  sweep  to  the  east  so  as  not  to  go  between 
those  watchers  and  the  guiding  fires,  then  trust  to  luck. 
Turning  stealthily  he  brings  Dandy  around,  leads  back 
down  the  ravine  for  some  thirty  yards,  then  turns  to  his 
horse,  pats  him  gently  one  minute;  "Do  your  prettiest  for 
your  colors,  my  boy,"  he  whispers;  springs  lightly,  noise- 
lessly to  his  back,  and  at  cautious  walk  comes  up  on  tht 
level  prairie,  with  the  timber  behind  him  three  hundred 
yards  away.  Southward  he  can  see  the  dim  outline  of  the 
bluffs.  Westward — once  that  little  arroyo  is  crossed — he 
knows  the  prairie  to  be  level  and  unimpeded,  fit  for  a 
race ;  but  he  needs  to  make  a  detour  to  pass  the  Indians 
guarding  it,  get  away  beyond  them,  cross  it  to  the  west 
far  behind  them,  and  then  look  out  for  stray  parties. 
Dandy  ambles  lightly  along,  eager  for  fun  and  little 
appreciating  the  danger.  Ray  bends  down  on  his  neck, 
intent  with  eye  and  ear.  He  feels  that  he  has  got  well 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  55 

out  east  of  the  Indian  picket  unchallenged,  when  suddenly 
voices  and  hoofs  come  bounding  up  the  valley  from  below. 
He  must  cross  their  front,  reach  the  ravine  before  them, 
and  strike  the  prairie  beyond.  "Go,  Dandy!"  he  mutters 
with  gentle  presure  of  leg,  and  the  sorrel  bounds  lightly 
away,  circling  southwestward  under  the  guiding  rein. 
Another  minute  and  he  is  at  the  arroyo  and  cautiously 
descending,  then  scrambling  up  the  west  bank,  and  then 
from  the  darkness  comes  savage  challenge,  a  sputter  of 
pony  hoofs.  Ray  bends  low  and  gives  Dandy  one  vigorous 
prod  with  the  spur,  and  with  muttered  prayer  and 
clinched  teeth  and  fists  he  leaps  into  the  wildest  race  for 
his  life. 

Bang!  bang!  go  two  shots  close  behind  him.  Crack! 
goes  his  pistol  at  a  dusky  form  closing  in  on  his  right. 
Then  come  yells,  shots,  the  uproar  of  hoofs,  the  distant 
cheer  and  charge  at  camp,  a  breathless  dash  for  and  close 
along  under  the  bluffs  where  his  form  is  best  concealed,  a 
whirl  to  the  left  into  the  first  ravine  that  shows  itself,  and 
despite  shots  and  shouts  and  nimble  ponies  and  vengeful 
foes,  the  Sanford  colors  are  riding  far  to  the  front,  and 
all  the  racers  of  the  reservations  cannot  overhaul  them. 


.      THE  FINAL  BIX)W 

From     "THE    TRUE    ULYSSES    S.     GRANT."     Chapter    XXXVIII. 
Copyright,  1914,  by  J.  B.  Llpplncott  Co. 

Long  months  before  the  melancholy  failure  of  that  ill- 
omened  bank,  the  General  had  told  Badeau  of  the  fabulous 
profits  the  firm  was  realizing,  and  Badeau  went  to  their 
old  comrade  of  the  war  and  White  House  days — to  Horace 
Porter — and  asked  that  reticent  but  experienced  soldier- 
citizen  his  opinion,  and  Porter  solemnly  shook  his  head. 
Such  profits,  he  said,  were  impossible  in  a  business  hon- 


56  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

estly  conducted.  But  Grant  saw  on  every  side  men  by 
the  dozen  who  had  started  with  less  than  his  modest  cap- 
ital and  had  gathered  fortunes  in  Wall  Street.  He  was  so 
confident  in  the  sagacity  and  judgment  of  Ulysses,  Jr., 
that  he  invested  his  every  dollar  with  the  firm  and  rein- 
vested every  penny  of  the  profits  which  he  did  not  lavish 
on  his  loved  ones  or  on  his  followers  and  friends.  Like 
Thackeray 's  most  lovable  hero,  Colonel  Newcome,  he 
thought  to  share  his  good  fortune  with  many  of  his  kith 
and  kin  and  urged  their  sending  their  savings  to  be  in- 
vested for  them  by  brilliant  young  "Buck"  and  his  sa- 
gacious partner — that  wonderful  wizard  of  linn  nor,  Mr. 
Ward.  Aside  from  the  chagrin  of  seeing  some  of  his  rec- 
ommendations disregarded,  and  certain  of  his  opponents 
regarded  first  by  Mr.  Garfield  and  later  by  Mr.  Arthur, 
General  Grant  was  living  in  those  years  a  life  of  ease, 
luxury,  and  freedom  from  care  as  never  before  he  had 
enjoyed.  Julia  Dent  was  as  ever  first  and  foremost  in  his 
world,  but  the  children  were  the  source  of  pride  and  joy 
unmistakable.  Devoted,  dutiful,  and  loyal  they  unques- 
tionably were,  but  Grant  believed  of  his  first  born  that 
he  was  destined  to  become  renowned  as  a  general,  and  of 
"Buck"  and  Jesse  that  they  were  born  financiers  and 
business  men.  As  for  Princess  Nellie,  the  father's  love 
and  yearning  for  that  one  daughter  of  his  house  and 
name  was  beyond  all  measure.  No  man  ever  loved  home, 
wife,  and  children  more  tenderly,  more  absorbingly. 

Although  widely  scattered  at  the  time,  this  heart- 
united  household  had  been  anticipating  a  blithe  and  merry 
Christmas  at  the  close  of  the  year  1883.  When  he  was 
alighting  from  his  carriage  just  before  midnight,  with  the 
welcoming  chimes  pealing  on  the  frosty  air,  the  General's 
foot  slipped  on  the  icy  pavement,  he  fell  heavily,  a  muscle 
snapped  in  the  thigh,  possibly  one  of  those  injured  twenty 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  57 

years  earlier,  the  day  of  that  fateful  stumble  at  Carrollton, 
and  he  was  carried  into  the  house,  never  thereafter  to 
leave  it  in  health  or  strength. 

Crutches  again,  and  later  a  cane,  long  were  necessary. 
In  March,  they  took  him  to  Fortress  Monroe  so  that  he 
could  hobble  about  in  the  soft  air  and  sunshine.  In  April 
he  was  back  again  in  Gotham,  able  to  drive  his  favorite 
team,  but  not  to  walk.  On  Sunday,  the  4th  day  of  May, 
the  wizard  partner,  Ward,  came  into  their  home  and  quite 
casually  announced  that  the  Marine  Bank  of  New  York, 
in  which  Grant  &  Ward  had  large  deposits,  needed  per- 
haps one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  to  tide  them 
over  a  temporary  difficulty.  If  General  Grant  could 
borrow  that  much  over  Monday,  Grant  &  Ward  would 
not  have  to  lose  a  cent;  otherwise  they  stood  to  lose  per- 
haps fifty  or  sixty  thousand.  Of  course  the  lender  would 
lose  nothing,  said  Ward,  as  there  was  a  million,  at  least, 
of  securities  in  the  vaults. 

The  world  knows  the  rest — how  unsuspiciously  our 
General  called  on  his  friend  and  fellow  horseman,  Mr. 
William  H.  Vanderbilt,  said  that  he  needed  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  for  a  day  or  so,  and  came  away  with 
a  cheque  for  that  amount.  For  no  other  man  probably 
would  Mr.  Vanderbilt  have  parted  unsecured  with  such 
a  sum.  The  cheque  was  promptly  endorsed  and  turned 
over  to  Mr.  Ward,  who  took  it  unconcernedly  and  then 
his  leave. 

Tuesday  morning,  May  6th,  believing  himself  a  million- 
aire and  the  brief  indebtedness  to  Vanderbilt  already 
cancelled,  Grant  alighted  at  the  Wall  Street  office  to  find 
an  ominous  gathering.  " Father,  you  had  better  go  home 
— the  bank  has  failed,"  said  Ulysses,  Jr.,  with  misery  in 
his  eyes,  but  Grant  stayed  to  investigate.  Badeau,  the 
faithful,  hastening  in  at  noon,  found  the  old  chief  seated 


58  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

in  the  rear  office,  calm  in  the  midst  of  stress  and  storm. 
"We  are  all  ruined  here,"  he  simply  said.  Ward  had 
vanished,  the  key  of  the  vaults  with  him,  and  when  they 
were  finally  opened,  the  boasted  "securities"  were  found 
to  be  but  shadows.  The  ruin  was  complete. 

Everything  they  had — all  the  beautiful  gifts,  trophies, 
souvenirs,  even  the  little  houses  owned  by  Mrs.  Grant  in 
Washington,  and  the  repurchased  Dent  property  about 
St.  Louis — had  to  be  sold.  Grant  insisted,  though  it  left 
them,  for  the  time  at  least,  absolutely  penniless.  It  had 
dragged  down  others  with  them;  it  involved  his  honored 
name  in  a  whirlpool  of  censure,  criticism,  and  calumny 
that  well-nigh  crushed  him.  Fallen  from  such  supremely 
high  estate,  the  insults  and  indignities  that  beset  him  now 
far  outweighed  the  slights  and  sneers  that  had  been  his 
portion  in  the  days  of  his  earlier  humiliation.  Over  the 
depths  of  the  misery  that  had  come  to  him  in  his  old  and 
recently  honored  age  let  us  draw  the  curtain.  No  man  on 
earth  could  know  the  suffering  it  cost  him.  Only  one 
woman  could  faintly  see.  Helping  hands  there  were  out- 
stretched to  him  instanter,  and  money  to  meet  the  imme- 
diate need.  Then,  as  the  storm  subsided  and  the  extent 
of  Ward's  villainy  and  Grant's  innocence  became  known, 
new  measures  were  taken  to  provide  against  absolute 
want.  A  trust  fund  had  already  been  raised.  A  measure 
was  speedily  set  on  foot  to  restore  to  Grant  the  rank  and 
pay  which  he  had  surrendered  on  assuming  the  presi- 
dency, and  a  modest  competence  would  thus  be  insured 
him  and  those  he  loved.  There  was  a  home  in  which  to 
live.  They  could  even  spend  the  summers  at  the  seashore. 
There  were  offers  of  congenial  occupation  that  might  have 
proved  mildly  lucrative.  There  was  measurable  return  to 
hope  and  possible  health.  There  had  never  been  com- 
plaint or  repining.  To  all  about  him  he  had  been  gentle- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  59 

ness,  consideration,  kindliness  itself.  There  was  just  one 
cause  of  new,  yet  slight  anxiety : 

All  through  that  summer  of  '84,  while  at  Long  Branch, 
his  throat  had  been  giving  him  pain,  and  a  Philadelphia 
physician,  examining  it  for  the  first  time  late  in  Septem- 
ber, advised,  even  urged,  says  Badeau,  his  consulting  a 
specialist  on  returning  to  town.  For  a  time  he  took  no 
heed.  He  was  writing  now,  long  hours  each  day,  but  at 
last  he  called,  as  further  urged  by  his  own  physician,  upon 
that  distinguished  expert,  Dr.  J.  H.  Douglas,  and  that  eve- 
ning calmly  admitted  that  the  trouble  in  his  throat  was 
cancerous  in  tendency.  And  that  this  was  true,  the  fact 
that  he  suddenly  dropped  the  luxury  of  all  the  days  that 
had  followed  Donelson — his  cigar — and  the  sufferings  that 
followed  in  November  and  December  proved  beyond  pos- 
sibility of  doubt.  «  *  * 

And  meanwhile  a  nation  stood  with  bated  breath  and 
watched  and  prayed.  Crowds  gathered  about  the  house 
and  importuned  the  physicians  for  tidings.  Congress  had 
passed  amid  scenes  of  emphatic  popular  approval  a  bill 
restoring  him  again  to  the  generalship  of  old — almost  the 
last  act  signed  by  Mr.  Arthur  before  leaving,  as  it  was 
almost  the  first  commission  signed  by  Mr.  Cleveland  after 
entering,  the  White  House. 

Then  presently,  for  quiet  and  for  better  air,  as  all  re- 
member, they  bore  him  to  the  Drexel  cottage  at  Mount 
McGregor,  near  Saratoga  Springs,  and  here,  his  voice 
utterly  gone,  compelled  to  make  his  wishes  known  by 
signs,  compelled  to  complete  the  pages  of  his  Memoirs 
with  pad  and  pencil,  our  stricken  soldier  indomitably  held 
to  his  self-appointed  task,  once  more  "fighting  it  out  on 
this  line  if  it  took  all  summer."  Never  even  at  Shiloh,  in 
front  of  Vicksburg,  or  in  the  fire-flashing  Wilderness  was 
he  more  tenacious,  determined,  heroic,  for  now  intense 


60  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

suffering  accompanied  almost  every  move  and  moment. 
Physicians  were  constantly  at  hand;  Fred,  the  devoted 
son,  ever  at  his  side.  Here  there  came  to  see  him  and  to 
sympathize  old  comrades — even  old  enemies — of  the  war 
days,  all  thought  of  rancor  buried  now.  Here,  just  as 
thirty  years  earlier  he  had  hastened  to  offer  aid,  came 
Buckner  (and  this  time  unprotesting)  in  unconditional 
surrender ;  for  beneath  the  shadow  of  that  hovering  wing 
the  last  vestige  of  sectional  pride  gave  way  to  fond  mem- 
ories of  the  old  and  firm  friendship.  Here,  almost  as  the 
twilight  deepened  into  the  gloom  of  night  eternal,  they 
bore  him  the  tribute  of  honor  and  respect  from  men  whom 
he  had  vehemently  opposed — foeman-in-chief  to  the 
Union,  Jefferson  Davis,  and  soldier-candidate  and  political 
foe,  Winfield  S.  Hancock.  Here  they  read  him  letters,  tele- 
grams, editorials  from  every  corner  of  the  Union  he  had 
striven  to  weld  and  secure,  every  line  telling  of  world- 
wide sympathy,  honor,  and  affection.  Here,  almost  at  the 
last,  he  penciled  those  farewell  pages  of  those  fruitful 
volumes,  which,  whatever  his  earlier  defects  in  style,  have 
been  declared  classic  in  modern  literature.  Here,  ere  the 
light  went  out  forever,  he  wrote  the  pathetic  missive,  his 
final  words  of  love,  longing,  and  devotion  to  the  wife 
whom  he  held  peerless  among  women,  to  the  children 
whom  he  loved  with  infinite  tenderness,  and  for  whose 
future  comfort,  even  in  the  face  of  such  persistent  torment 
and  impending  death,  he  had  labored  to  the  very  last. 
And  then,  as  he  completed  the  final  paragraph — the 
story  of  his  soldier-life  and  services — and  with  faltering 
hand  signed  the  final  letter,  he  closed  his  wearied  eyes 
upon  the  group  that  hovered  ever  about  him,  eager  to 
garner  every  look  and  whisper,  and  so  the  long  fight 
ended,  even  as  it  had  begun,  almost  without  a  sigh.  Appar- 
ently without  consciousness  of  pain,  certainly  without 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  61 

struggle  or  suffering,  surrounded  by  that  devoted  house- 
hold— wife,  sons,  and  only  daughter — the  greatest  of  our 
warriors  passed  onward  into  the  valley  of  shadows,  and 
to  immortality. 

Thirty  years  have  passed  since  that  which  struck  from 
our  muster  rolls  the  name  of  our  first  and  foremost  gen- 
eral— thirty  years,  as  these  pages  are  given  to  the  light, 
since  that  summer  day  on  which,  with  the  highest  honors 
and  the  greatest  retinue  ever  accorded  to  American  citi- 
zen or  soldier,  the  flag-enshrouded  casket  was  borne 
almost  the  length  of  all  Manhattan ;  Hancock,  the  superb 
on  many  a  battlefield,  heading  the  league-long  procession 
of  soldiery,  the  world-garnered  dignitaries  from  every 
state  and  clime.  Amidst  the  solemn  thunder  of  the  guns 
of  the  warships  moored  along  the  Hudson,  the  farewell 
volleys  of  the  troops  aligned  along  the  heights,  in  the 
presence  of  the  President  and  cabinet,  the  supreme  court 
and  the  diplomatic  corps,  the  governors  of  nearly  every 
commonwealth,  eminent  soldiers,  sailors,  veterans  of  the 
Civil  War,  the  gray  mingling  with  the  blue,  and  all  en- 
gulfed  in  a  vast  multitude  of  mourners,  the  final  prayers 
were  said,  the  last  benediction  spoken,  and  under  the 
shadow  of  the  beloved  flag  he  had  served  with  such  fidelity 
and  to  such  eminent  purpose,  they  laid  to  rest  the  honored 
soldier  whose  valiant  service  had  secured  to  them  and  to 
their  posterity  the  blessings  of  union,  progress,  and  tran- 
quility,  and  whose  crowning  message  to  the  nation  he  had 
restored  was  the  simple  admonition,  "Let  us  have  peace." 

And  in  those  thirty  years  the  people  of  our  land  have 
had  abundant  time  to  study  and  to  reflect.  Each  succeed- 
ing year  adds  to  their  reverence  for  their  greatest  friend, 
leader,  and  statesman,  Abraham  Lincoln.  Each  succeed- 
ing year  seems  to  increase  their  appreciation  of  their 
greatest  soldier,  Ulysses  Grant,  and  yet  it  sometimes  seems 


62  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

as  though  ill  the  magnitude  of  the  obstacles  overcome,  the 
immensity  of  the  military  problems  solved,  the  supreme 
soldiership  of  the  man  has  blinded  us  for  the  time  to  the 
other  virtues,  less  heroic,  perhaps,  yet  not  less  marked 
and  true,  virtues  as  son,  as  husband,  father,  and  friend, 
not  often  equalled  in  other  men,  if  ever  excelled.  *  *  * 
And  was  not  his  a  marvelous  career?  Cradled  in  the 
cottage,  he  spoke  for  years  from  the  seat  of  the  mightiest. 
Chosen  and  trained  for  his  country's  wars,  he  loved  best 
the  arts  of  peace.  Schooled  as  a  regular,  he  to  the  fullest 
extent  and  from  the  very  first  believed  in  the  volunteer. 
Ignored  by  book  and  bureau  soldiers  at  the  start,  despite 
the  fine  record  of  the  Mexican  campaigns,  indebted  to  a 
Western  governor  for  the  opportunity  refused  him  by  the 
War  Department,  he  held  his  modest  way,  uncomplaining, 
asking  only  to  be  made  of  use.  One  year  had  raised  him 
from  the  twilight  of  a  Western  town  to  the  triumph  of 
Donelson;  two  years  made  him  the  victor  of  Vicksburg, 
the  head  of  the  armies  of  the  West ;  three  had  set  him  in 
supreme  command,  deferred  to  even  by  those  who  late 
as  '62  had  sought  to  down  him ;  four  and  the  sword  of  the 
chivalric  Lee  was  his  to  do  with  as  he  would — the  rebel- 
lion crushed,  the  war  ended — and  then,  with  our  martyred 
Lincoln  lying  in  the  grave  ever  watered  by  a  nation's 
tears,  small  wonder  was  it  that  twice  the  people  held 
Grant  long  years  at  their  head,  and  when  he  had  returned, 
from  that  globe-circling  triumphal  progress,  in  large  num- 
bers would  again  have  called  him  to  the  White  House,  an 
uncrowned  monarch,  the  chosen  of  sovereign  citizens. 
Was  he  greater  then  than  in  the  chain  of  ills  that  fol- 
lowed? Tricked  by  those  he  trusted,  himself  unskilled 
in  guile,  ruined  financially  by  those  he  had  been  taught 
to  hold  infallible,  and  finally  confronted  by  the  dread  con- 
viction that,  though  barely  beyond  the  prime  of  life,  his 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  63 

days  were  numbered — was  he  ever  amid  the  thunder  of 
saluting  cannon  and  the  cheers  of  countless  multitudes  so 
great  as  when,  with  the  grim  destroyer  clutching  at  his 
throat,  he  fought  for  life  that  through  those  matchless 
Memoirs  he  might  earn  the  means  to  wipe  out  every  pos- 
sible obligation  and  provide  in  modest  comfort,  at  least, 
for  those  he  loved  and  must  soon  leave  to  mourn  him? 
In  those  last  heroic  days  at  Mt.  McGregor  he  stood  re- 
vealed in  his  silent  suffering,  the  ideal  of  devotion,  en- 
durance, and  determination,  until,  his  great  work  done, 
his  toil  and  trials  ended,  his  sword  long  since  sheathed, 
his  pen  now  dropping  from  the  wearied,  nerveless  hand, 
he  could  turn  to  the  Peace  Ineffable  and  sink  to  rest — our 
greatest  soldier — our  honored  President — our  foremost 
citizen.  Aye,  soldier,  statesman,  loyal  citizen  he  was ;  and 
yet  more,  for  in  purity  of  life,  in  love  of  home  and  wife 
and  children,  in  integrity  unchallenged,  in  truth  and 
honor  unblemished,  in  manner  simplicity  itself — though 
ever  coupled  with  that  quiet  dignity  that  made  him  peer 
among  the  princes  of  the  earth — in  speech  so  clean  that 
oath  or  execration  never  soiled  his  lips,  unswerving  in  his 
faith,  a  martyr  to  his  friendships,  merciful  to  the  fallen, 
magnanimous  to  the  foe,  magnificent  in  self-discipline, 
was  he  not  also,  and  in  all  that  the  grand  old  name  im- 
plies, Grant — the  gentleman? 


JOHN  MUIR. 

John  Muir  was  born  at  Dunbar,  Scotland,  April  21,  1838, 
and  died  at  Los  Angeles,  California,  December  24,  1914.  He 
attended  school  before  he  had  completed  his  third  year  of  age, 
but  even  before  this  time  his  grandfather  had  taught  him  the 
letters  of  the  alphabet  upon  the  signs  in  the  vicinity.  He 
remained  in  the  Scotch  schools  until  he  was  eleven  and  made 
most  valuable  use  of  his  time,  as  may  be  judged  by  his  prog- 
ress, especially  in  Latin.  At  the  age  of  eleven  he  had  to  leave 
school  to  accompany  his  father  to  the  new  home  in  the  forests 
of  Wisconsin. 

Upon  their  arrival  in  America  after  a  voyage  which  was  to 
John  and  his  brother  one  constant  round  of  happy  -experiences, 
there  was  no  further  opportunity  for  elementary  schooling.  His 
education  became  that  of  the  toiler  and  he  stored  his  mind 
with  knowledge  acquired  from  the  observation  of  the  plants 
and  animals  of  the  woods  and  lakes  and  from  the  association 
and  study  of  the  animals  of  the  farm.  He  found  opportunity 
to  read  the  few  books  which  came  into  his  possession,  but  the 
strict  regulation  of  the  home  made  him  read  largely  by 
snatches.  His  fertile  brain  was  employed  almost  constantly  in 
the  matter  of  inventions.  His  duties  on  the  farm  comprised  all 
activities  from  that  of  cultivating  the  fields  to  the  building  of 
houses  and  barns  and  the  digging  of  wells.  In  his  recent  book 
"The  Story  of  My  Boyhood  and  Youth,"  he  has  graphically  de- 
scribed his  work  of  digging  a  well  by  chiselling  for  nearly 
eighty  feet  through  the  solid  granite. 

Muir  remained  on  the  farm  until  he  had  attained  his  ma- 
jority. He  then  went  to  the  capitol  of  the  state  to  exhibit  some 
of  his  wonderful  inventions  at  the  State  Fair.  This  experience 
led  to  his  employment  in  a  shop  in  Prairie  du  Chien,  where  he 
worked  part  of  the  year.  He  then  went  to  the  University, 
where  he  earned  his  way  during  the  four  years  of  his  course. 
He  completed  his  course  of  study  there  with  the  class  of  1864, 
and  then,  according  to  his  own  statement,  he  plunged  immedi- 
ately into  the  work  of  geologist,  explorer,  and  naturalist.  His 
work  was  quite  largely  in  the  Yosemite  region  of  California 
and  among  the  glaciers  of  the  Sierras  and  Alaska.  In  the  latter 
region  during  the  year  of  1881  he  explored  the  glacier  named 
after  him.  It  was,  however,  his  description  of  the  Yosemite 
Valley  that  first  brought  him  into  prominence.  He  made  an 
extended  search  for  the  De  Long  Arctic  exploring  party,  which 
was  lost  in  its  effort  to  reach  the  far  North.  Later  he  travelled, 
part  of  the  time  in  company  with  John  Burroughs,  through 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  65 

Hawaii,  Russia,  Siberia,  Manchuria,  India,  Australasia,  and 
South  America. 

No  place,  however,  furnished  him  with  such  rich  material 
about  which  to  tell  his  thoughts  as  did  his  adopted  home, 
California,  and  the  newer  Alaska.  In  the  later  years  of  his 
life  his  residence  was  at  Martinez,  California.  He  was  married 
to  Louise  Strenzel  in  1880.  To  them  was  born  a  daughter, 
Helen,  who  still  lives  in  California  and  who  was  with  her  father 
at  the  time  of  his  death. 

While  John  Muir's  experience  as  a  pioneer  in  the  forests 
of  Wisconsin,  reveals  the  severe  hardships  of  that  life,  it  reveals 
many  of  the  joys  as  well,  and  shows  that  his  active  brain  was 
open  to  all  the  avenues  of  self  education.  Field,  forest,  and 
lake  were  full  of  opportunities  for  him  to  observe  and  study, 
and  as  a  result  John  and  his  brother,  David,  were  fine  natur- 
alists, irrespective  of  books  upon  the  subject.  John's  home  life 
was  rich  in  the  companionship  of  brothers  and  sisters,  and  his 
mother  was  most  sympathetic  and  helpful  to  him  in  his  aspi- 
rations to  know  and  to  become  the  scholar. 

The  Scotch  schools  had  given  him  such  training  as  enabled 
him  to  use  books  as  tools  throughout  his  life.  The  necessities 
of  the  farm  and  home  drove  him  to  inventing  means  for  getting 
things  done.  The  result  was  that  he  soon  became  known  as  a 
genius,  and  this  inventive  work  finally  opened  the  way  for  his 
entrance  into  the  University.  So  keen  was  John's  desire  to 
know  and  to  invent  that  it  became  necessary  for  his  father  to 
drive  him  to  bed  too  frequently,  so  he  told  the  boy  that  if  he 
wished  to  study,  he  should  get  up  in  the  morning.  John  took 
his  father  at  his  word  and  managed  to  rise  at  two  o'clock  morn- 
ing after  morning  to  work  upon  his  inventions.  As  a  result  of 
such  efforts  there  was  made  a  model  of  self-setting  saw  mill, 
a  thermometer,  clocks,  an  apparatus  to  get  him  up  at  the  tkne 
desired,  and  later  at  the  University  a  machine  to  make  visible 
the  growth  of  plants  and  the  action  of  sunlight,  a  barometer, 
and  a  desk  which  automatically  threw  up,  from  a  rack  under- 
neath, each  book  in  the  order  of  his  studies  during  the  day  and 
withdrew  it  again  when  the  time  allotted  for  this  study  had  ex- 
pired. To  accompany  this  wonderful  invention,  he  furnished 
his  bed  with  an  adjustment  that  set  him  on  his  feet  at  the 
morning  rising  hour  and  at  the  same  instant  lighted  his  lamp. 
These  seemingly  incredible  inventions  are  fully  explained  in 
"The  Story  of  My  Boyhood  and  Youth,"  Houghton  Mifflin  Com- 
pany, 1913.  So  eagerly  did  he  pursue  knowledge  for  its  own 
sake  while  he  was  in  the  University  that  the  old  janitor  was 
proud  to  point  out  Muir's  room  to  visitors  many  years  after  his 
departure. 

So  valuable  has  been  the  work  of  this  investigating  mind 
that  Wisconsin,  Harvard,  and  Yale  Universities  have  deemed  it 
a  pleasure  to  confer  upon  John  Muir  honorary  degrees.  With 
his  entire  life  devoted  to  research,  he  may  truthfully  be  said  to 


66  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

have  been  one  of  America's  best  educated  men. 

He  contributed  extensively  to  the  organization  of  scientific 
clubs  and  to  scientific  magazines.  He  was  much  interested  in 
forest  reservation  and  did  much  towards  the  plans  which  the 
government  now  employs.  His  work  in  connection  with  gov- 
ernment regulated  parks  has  been  invaluable. 

As  a  writer  Muir  is  one  of  the  most  interestingly  instructive 
we  have  had.  His  language  is  clear  and  lucid  and  he  has  a  mes- 
sage which  he  carries  directly  to  the  heart  and  mind  of  his 
reader.  Besides  his  many  magazine  articles  he  has  written  the 
"Mountains  of  California,"  1894;  "Our  National  Parks,"  1901- 
"Stickeen,  the  Story  of  a  Dog,"  1909;  "My  First  Summer  in 
the  Sierra,"  1911;  "The  Yosemite,"  1912,  and  the  "Story  of  My 
Boyhood  and  Youth,"  1913.  This  last  is  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting and  inspiring  books  for  young  people  that  we  have 
today. 

The  Muir  homestead  is  twelve  miles  from  Portage,  Wiscon- 
sin. There  were  two  farms,  the  Spring  Fountain  farm  and  the 
Hickory  Hill  farm.  It  is  upon  the  latter  that  is  found  the  well 
90  feet  deep,  eighty  feet  of  which  John  chiselled  through  solid 
granite. 

To  illustrate  Muir's  interesting  manner  of  presenting  his 
observations  we  are  adding  the  following  selections  from  "The 
Mountains  of  California,"  published  by  the  Century  Co. 

SNOW  BANNERS 

Copyrighted  by  the  Century  Co.,  1894. 

The  most  magnificent  storm  phenomenon  I  ever  saw, 
surpassing  in  showy  grandeur  the  most  imposing  effects 
o£  clouds,  floods,  or  avalanches,  was  the  peaks  of  the  High 
Sierra,  back  of  Yosemite  Valley,  decorated  with  snow- 
banners.  Many  of  the  starry  snow-flowers,  out  of  which 
these  banners  are  made,  fall  before  they  are  ripe,  while 
most  of  those  that  do  attain  perfect  development  as  six- 
rayed  crystals  glint  and  chafe  against  one  another  in  their 
fall  through  the  frosty  air,  and  are  broken  into  fragments. 
This  dry,  fragmentary  snow  is  still  further  prepared  for 
the  formation  of  banners  by  the  action  of  the  wind.  For, 
instead  of  finding  rest  at  once,  like  the  snow  which  falls 
into  the  tranquil  depths  of  the  forests,  it  is  rolled  over  and 
over,  beaten  against  rock-ridges,  and  swirled  in  pits  and 
hollows,  like  boulders,  pebbles,  and  sand  in  the  pot-holes 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  67 

of  a  river,  until  finally  the  delicate  angles  of  the  crystals 
are  worn  off,  and  the  whole  mass  is  reduced  to  dust.  And 
whenever  storm-winds  find  this  prepared  snow-dust  in 
a  loose  condition  on  exposed  slopes,  where  there  is  a  free 
upward  sweep  to  leeward,  it  is  tossed  back  into  the  sky, 
and  borne  onward  from  peak  to  peak  in  the  form  of  ban- 
ners or  cloudy  drifts,  according  to  the  velocity  of  the 
wind  and  the  conformation  of  the  slopes  up  or  around 
which  it  is  driven.  While  thus  flying  through  the  air, 
a  small  portion  makes  good  its  escape,  and  remains  in  the 
sky  again  as  vapor.  But  far  the  greater  part,  after  being 
driven  into  the  sky  again  and  again,  is  at  length  locked 
fast  in  bossy  drifts,  or  in  the  wombs  of  glaciers,  some  of 
it  to  remain  silent  and  rigid  for  centuries  before  it  is 
finally  melted  and  sent  singing  down  the  mountainsides 
to  the  sea. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  the  abundance  of  winter  snow- 
dust  in  the  mountains,  and  the  frequency  of  high  winds, 
and  the  length  of  time  the  dust  remains  loose  and  exposed 
to  their  action,  the  occurrence  of  well-formed  banners  is, 
for  causes  we  shall  hereafter  note,  comparatively  rare. 
I  have  seen  only  one  display  of  this  kind  that  seemed  in 
every  way  perfect.  This  was  in  the  winter  of  1873,  when 
the  snow-laden  summits  were  swept  by  a  wild  "norther." 
I  happened  at  the  time  to  be  wintering  in  Yosemite  Valley, 
that  sublime  Sierra  temple  where  every  day  one  may  see 
the  grandest  sights.  Yet  even  here  the  wild  gala-day  of 
the  north  seemed  surpassingly  glorious.  I  was  awakened 
in  the  morning  by  the  rocking  of  my  cabin  and  the  beat- 
ing of  pine-burs  on  the  roof.  Detached  torrents  and 
avalanches  from  the  main  wind-flood  overhead  were  rush- 
ing wildly  down  the  narrow  side  canyons,  and  over  the 
precipitous  walls,  with  loud  resounding  roar,  rousing  the 
pines  to  enthusiastic  action,  and  making  the  whole  valley 


68  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

vibrate  as  though  it  were  an  instrument  being  played. 

But  afar  on  the  lofty  exposed  peaks  of  the  range 
standing  so  high  in  the  sky,  the  storm  was  expressing 
itself  in  still  grander  characters,  which  I  was  soon  to 
see  in  all  their  glory.  I  had  long  been  anxious  to  study 
some  points  in  the  structure  of  the  ice-cone  that  is  formed 
every  winter  at  the  foot  of  the  upper  Yosemite  fall,  but 
blinding  spray  by  which  it  is  invested  had  hitherto  pre- 
vented me  from  making  a  sufficiently  near  approach. 
This  morning  the  entire  body  of  the  fall  was  torn  into 
gauzy  shreds,  and  blown  horizontally  along  the  face  of 
the  cliff,  leaving  the  cone  dry ;  and  while  making  my  way 
to  the  top  of  an  overlooking  ledge  to  seize  so  favorable 
an  opportunity  to  examine  the  interior  of  the  cone,  the 
peaks  of  the  Merced  group  came  in  sight  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  South  Dome,  each  waving  a  resplendent  banner 
against  the  blue  sky,  as  regular  in  form,  and  as  firm  in 
texture,  as  if  woven  of  fine  silk.  So  rare  and  splendid 
a  phenomenon,  of  course,  overbore  all  other  considera- 
tions, and  I  at  once  let  the  ice-cone  go,  and  began  to  force 
my  way  out  of  the  valley  to  some  dome  or  ridge  suf- 
ficiently lofty  to  command  a  general  view  of  the  main 
summits,  feeling  assured  that  I  should  find  them  bannered 
still  more  gloriously ;  nor  was  I  in  the  least  disappointed. 
Indian  Canon,  through  which  I  climbed,  was  choked  with 
snow  that  had  been  shot  down  in  avalanches  from  the 
high  cliffs  on  either  side,  rendering  the  ascent  difficult; 
but  inspired  by  the  roaring  storm,  the  tedious  wallowing 
brought  no  fatigue,  and  in  four  hours  I  gained  the  top 
of  a  ridge  above  the  valley,  8,000  feet  high.  And  there 
in  bold  relief,  like  a  clear  painting,  appeared  a  most  im- 
posing scene.  Innumerable  peaks,  black  and  sharp,  rose 
grandly  into  the  dark  blue  sky,  their  bases  set  in  solid 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  69 

white,  their  sides  streaked  and  splashed  with  snow,  like 
ocean  rocks  with  foam;  and  from  every  summit,  all  free 
and  unconfused,  was  streaming  a  beautiful,  silky,  silvery 
banner,  from  half  a  mile  to  a  mile  in  length,  slender 
at  the  point  of  attachment,  then  widening  gradually  as 
it  extended  from  the  peak  until  it  was  about  1,000  or 
1,500  feet  in  breadth,  as  near  as  I  could  estimate.  The 
cluster  of  peaks  called  the  " Crown  of  the  Sierra,"  at  the 
head  of  the  Merced  and  Tuolumne  rivers, — Mounts  Dana, 
Gibbs,  Conness,  Lyell,  Maclure,  Ritter,  with  their  name- 
less compeers, — each  had  its  own  refulgent  banner,  wav- 
ing with  a  clearly  visible  motion  in  the  sun  glow,  and 
there  was  not  a  single  cloud  in  the  sky  to  mar  their  simple 
grandeur.  Fancy  yourself  standing  on  this  Yosemite 
ridge  looking  eastward.  You  notice  a  strange  garish 
glitter  in  the  air.  The  gale  drives  wildly  overhead  with 
a  fierce,  tempestuous  roar,  but  its  violence  is  not  felt, 
for  you  are  looking  through  a  sheltered  opening  in  the 
woods  as  through  a  window.  There,  in  the  immediate 
foreground  of  your  picture,  rises  a  majestic  forest  of 
silver  fir  blooming  in  eternal  freshness,  the  foliage  yellow- 
green,  and  the  snow  beneath  the  trees  strewn  with  their 
beautiful  plumes,  plucked  off  by  the  wind.  Beyond,  and 
extending  over  all  the  middle  ground,  are  somber  swaths 
of  pine,  interrupted  by  huge  swelling  ridges  and  domes; 
and  just  beyond  the  dark  forest  you  see  the  monarchs  of 
the  High  Sierra  waving  their  magnificent  banners.  They 
are  twenty  miles  away,  but  you  would  not  wish  them 
nearer,  for  every  feature  is  distinct,  and  the  whole  glori- 
ous show  is  seen  in  its  right  proportions.  After  this  gen- 
eral view,  mark  how  sharply  the  dark,  snowless  ribs  and 
buttresses  and  summits  of  the  peaks  are  defined,  except- 
ing the  portions  veiled  by  the  banners,  and  how  delicately 


70  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

their  sides  are  streaked  with  snow,  where  it  has  come  to 
rest  in  narrow  flutings  and  gorges.  Mark,  too,  how 
grandly  the  banners  wave  as  the  Avind  is  deflected  against 
their  sides,  and  how  trimly  each  is  attached  to  the  very 
summit  of  its  peak,  like  a  streamer  at  a  masthead;  how 
smooth  and  silky  they  are  in  texture,  and  how  finely 
their  fading  fringes  are  penciled  on  the  azure  sky.  See 
how  dense  and  opaque  they  are  at  the  point  of  attach- 
ment, and  how  filmy  and  translucent  toward  the  end, 
so  that  the  peaks  back  of  them  are  seen  dimly,  as  though 
you  were  looking  through  ground  glass.  Yet  again, 
observe  how  some  of  the  longest,  belonging  to  the  loftiest 
summits,  stream  perfectly  free  all  the  way  across  inter- 
vening notches  and  passes  from  peak  to  peak,  while  others 
overlap  and  partly  hide  each  other.  And  consider  how 
keenly  every  particle  of  this  wondrous  cloth  of  snow  is 
flashing  out  jets  of  light.  These  are  the  main  features  of 
the  beautiful  and  terrible  picture  as  seen  from  the  forest 
window ;  and  it  would  still  be  surpassingly  glorious  were 
the  fore  and  middle  grounds  obliterated  altogether,  leav- 
ing only  the  black  peaks,  the  white  banners  and  the 
blue  sky. 

Glancing  now  in  a  general  way  at  the  formation  of 
snow-banners,  we  find  that  the  main  causes  of  the  won- 
drous beauty  and  perfection  of  those  we  have  been  con- 
templating were  the  favorable  direction  and  great  force 
of  the  wind,  the  abundance  of  snow-dust,  and  the  peculiar 
conformation  of  the  slopes  of  the  peaks.  It  is  essential 
not  only  that  the  wind  should  move  with  great  velocity 
and  steadiness  to  supply  a  sufficiently  copious  and  con- 
tinuous stream  of  snow  dust,  but  that  it  should  come  from 
the  north.  No  perfect  banner  is  ever  hung  on  the  Sierra 
peaks  by  a  south  wind.  Had  the  gale  that  day  blown 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  71 

from  the  south,  leaving  other  conditions  unchanged,  only 
a  dull,  confused,  fog-like  drift  would  have  been  pro- 
duced ;  for  the  snow,  instead  of  being  spouted  up  over  the 
tops  of  the  peaks  in  concentrated  currents  to  be  drawn 
out  as  streamers,  would  have  been  shed  off  around  the 
sides,  and  piled  down  into  glacier  wombs.  The  cause  of 
the  concentrated  action  of  the  north  wind  is  found  in  the 
peculiar  form  of  the  north  sides  of  the  peaks,  where  the 
amphitheaters  of  the  residual  glaciers  are.  In  general,, 
the  south  sides  are  convex  and  irregular,  while  the  north 
sides  are  concave  both  in  their  vertical  and  horizontal 
sections;  the  wind  in  ascending  these  curves  converges 
toward  the  summits,  carrying  the  snow  in  concentrating 
currents  with  it,  shooting  it  almost  straight  up  into  the 
air  above  the  peaks,  from  which  it  is  then  carried  away 
in  a  horizontal  direction. 

This  difference  in  form  between  the  north  and  south 
sides  of  the  peaks  was  almost  wholly  produced  by  the  dif- 
ference in  the  kind  and  quantity  of  the  glaciation  to 
which  they  have  been  subjected,  the  north  sides  having 
been  hollowed  by  residual  shadow-glaciers  of  a  form  that 
never  existed  on  the  sun-beaten  sides. 

It  appears,  therefore,  that  shadows  in  a  great  part 
determine  not  only  the  forms  of  lofty  icy  mountains,  but 
also  those  of  the  snow-banners  that  the  wild  winds  hang 
on  them. 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 

"If  you  haven't  what  you  like,  try  to  like  what  you  have." 

In  this  quotation  is  found  the  philosophy  of  life  during 
many  severe  trials  of  one  whose  girlhood  and  early  career  as 
a  writer  were  spent  entirely  within  the  confines  of  Wisconsin. 
Ella  Wheeler  was  born  at  Johnstown  Center,  Wisconsin,  some- 
time in  the  '50 's,  and  the  family  moved  to  a  farm  near  Madi- 
son when  she  was  a  year  old.  The  discussion  of  her  life  given 
here  is  derived  quite  largely  from  her  own  statements  in  an 
article.  "My  Autobiography,"  published  in  the  Cosmopolitan 
magazine  for  August,  1901. 

Mrs.  Wheeler,  Ella's  mother,  was  a  woman  of  some  literary 
Inclinations  and  was  very  fond  of  reading.  She  loved  not  only 
the  good  society  of  books,  but  she  longed  also  for  the  pleasures 
of  the  social  life  of  a  cultured  community  such  as  she  had 
known  in  her  Vermont  home.  Pioneer  life  was  especially  irk- 
some to  her,  and  she  found  herself  unable  to  meet  patiently 
the  many  hardships  that  the  change  of  fortune  had  brought 
her,  and  her  attitude  in  the  home  was  not  always  buoyant. 

Some  time  after  the  home  was  established  in  Wisconsin, 
there  was  born  to  these  parents  their  fourth  child,  Ella,  the  fu- 
ture poetess.  It  may  not  be  too  much  to  say,  since  Mrs.  Wil- 
cox  seems  to  think  it  herself,  that  from  the  struggles  of  the 
father  to  meet  the  hardships  that  his  new  life  brought  him, 
may  have  sprung  that  bit  of  wholesome  philosophy  which 
stands  at  the  head  of  this  discussion.  It  is  evident  that  she 
found  many  opportunities  to  test  it  to  the  utmost.  From  the 
suppressed  literary  desires  of  the  mother  may  have  come  the 
intense  longing  of  the  daughter  to  achieve  helpfulness  through 
writing. 

From  the  standpoint  of  language  training  this  home  was 
far  from  limited,  and  Ella  had  opportunities  here  accorded  to 
the  minority  of  children  even  at  the  present  time.  She  says: 
"My  mother  was  a  great  reader  of  whatever  came  in  her  way, 
and  was  possessed  of  a  wonderful  memory.  The  elder  children 
were  excellent  scholars,  and  a  grammatical  error  was  treated 
as  a  cardinal  sin  in  the  household."  That  Ella  profited  from 
this  inheritance  and  training  may  be  seen  from  the  following 
statements.  At  school  she  found  the  composition  exercises  the 
most  delightful  of  all  her  school  duties.  As  early  as  eight  she 
was  excelling  in  the  expression  of  her  thoughts  in  essay  form. 
By  the  age  of  fourteen  she  had  become  the  neighborhood  cel- 
ebrity because  of  her  stories  and  her  poetry.  Naturally  these 
pioneer  people  would  criticise  the  mother  for  allowing  Ella  to 
scribble  so  much  when  she  might  have  been  doing  household  or 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  75 

farm  tasks;  but  their  criticism  was  silenced,  and  they  learned 
to  praise  her  efforts  when  they  found  that  there  was  a  market 
with  the  magazines  and  papers  for  Ella's  "scribblings." 

At  the  age  of  fourteen  Ella  Wheeler's  education,  "excellent 
in  grammar,  spelling  and  reading,  but  wretched  in  mathe- 
matics," was  completed  so  far  as  the  rural  school  was  con- 
cerned. Sometime  later,  through  great  sacrifice  on  the  part 
of  her  people,  she  was  placed  for  one  term  in  the  University 
of  Wisconsin.  Of  this  experience  she  says:  "I  was  not  at 
all  happy  there;  first,  because  I  knew  the  strain  it  put  upon 
the  home  purse;  second,  because  I  felt  the  gulf  between  myself 
and  the  town  girls,  whose  gowns  and  privileges  revealed  to  me 
for  the  first  time,  the  different  classes  in  American  social  life; 
and  third,  because  I  wanted  to  write  and  did  not  want  to 
study."  Thus  her  school  work  ended  and  her  acquisition  of 
knowledge  necessary  to  furnish  details  for  her  emotional  poems 
has  been  made  through  her  individual  study  since  the  Univer- 
sity experience. 

Ella  Wheeler's  struggle  to  become  a  writer  is  one  of  the 
most  inspiring  stories  among  Wisconsin  writers.  A  weekly 
paper  came  to  the  home  and  besides  this  there  was  an  old  red 
chest  in  their  upstairs  wherein  there  was  kept  the  often-read 
copies  of  Arabian  Nights,  Gulliver's  Travels,  John  Gilpin's 
Ride,  and  a  few  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  In  addition  to  these, 
friends  had  sent  the  family  the  New  York  Ledger  and  the  New 
York  Mercury.  The  serial  stories  of  these  papers  furnished 
not  only  pleasing  reading,  but  models  of  plots  and  of  forms  of 
expression  which  became  the  guide  to  her  in  the  art  of  story 
writing. 

When  Ella  was  thirteen  years  old  the  Mercury  ceased  to 
come  to  her  home,  and  she  regretted  the  loss  of  the  stories  so 
much  that  she  determined  to  write  something  for  the  paper 
with  the  hope  that  the  publisher  would  pay  for  her  article 
through  subscription.  After  some  delay  this  brought  the  much 
coveted  subscription  and  she  says:  "Perhaps  the  most  trium- 
phant and  dramatic  hour  of  my  life  was  when  I  set  forth  and 
announced  to  the  family  that  my  literary  work  had  procured 
the  coveted  Mercury  for  our  united  enjoyment." 

This  experience  led  her  to  write  extensively  for  the  maga- 
zines and  papers,  a  list  of  which  a  University  friend  had  sent 
her.  The  articles  which  they  accepted  soon  enabled  her  to 
supply  the  home  with  many  periodicals  and  books  and  other 
articles  of  home  use.  She  was  not  content  with  writing  essays 
very  long,  but  soon  undertook  the  production  of  verse.  Her 
first  poem  was  rejected  by  the  Mercury  with  some  degree  of 
scorn,  but  she  soon  offered  it  to  other  papers  and  so  continued 
until  she  found  a  publisher.  Very  frequently  some  of  her 
articles  would  be  returned  as  many  as  nine  times  before  she 
found  a  publisher. 

The  Wheeler  family  were  enthusiastic  advocates  of  total 


76  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

abstinence,  and  Ella  used  her  pen  to  advance  this  cause.  Her 
first  collection  of  poems  into  book  form  was  entitled  "Drops 
of  Water."  A  poem  with  temperance  as  its  theme  is  given 
as  the  first  illustration  of  her  efforts  in  the  collection  published 
here. 

Ella  Wheeler's  training  tended  to  make  her  the  lyric  rather 
than  the  narrative  poetess.  She  wrote  largely  of  the  emotion 
that  played  through  her  passing  experiences.  "Everything  in 
life/'  she  says,  "was  material  for  my  own  emotions,  the  remarks 
or  experiences  of  my  comrades  and  associates,  sentences  from 
books  I  read,  and  some  phases  of  Nature."  In  general  three 
things  may  be  said  to  characterize  these  short  poems  and  her 
own  life  as  revealed  by  them,  for  her  life  itself  is  a  poem.  First, 
she  is  convinced  that  the  supreme  thing  in  life  is  love.  In  one 
poem  she  asserts  that  love  is  the  need  of  the  world.  In  another, 
"The  Kingdom  of  Love,"  which  is  given  later,  she  truthfully 
proclaims  that  love  is  the  very  essence  of  the  home. 

The  second  characteristic  is  her  spirit  of  buoyancy  which 
has  enabled  her  to  surmount  the  many  crushing  deprivations 
and  disappointments  in  her  life.  She  was  born  with  an  un- 
quenchable hope  and  an  unfaltering  trust  in  God  and  guardian 
spirits.  "I  often  wept  myself  to  sleep  after  a  day  of  disappoint- 
ment and  worries,"  she  says,  "but  woke  in  the  morning  singing 
aloud  with  the  joy  of  life."  It  was  such  experiences  as  these 
that  enabled  her  to  say: 

"Laugh  and  the  world  laughs  with  you; 
Weep  and  you  weep  alone." 

Her  faith  in  the  better  things  to  be  is  well  expressed  in  the 
little  poem,  "The  Tendril's  Fate."  Trials  to  her  are  frequently 
the  means  by  which  the  soul's  true  worth  is  tested.  This 
thought  is  expressed  in  the  poem,  "Three  Friends."  She  bears 
trials  not  merely  for  her  own  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  those 
about  her.  We  are  illustrating  this  quality  with  the  poem 
"Ambition's  Trail."  Her  faith  that  life  has  still  much  that  is 
better  than  the  present  may  be  illustrated  by  her  Morning 
Prayer. 

The  third  characteristic  manifest  in  her  poetry  is  that  of  the 
spirit  of  helpfulness  that  manifests  itself  in  every  new  phase  of 
life  that  she  assumes.  This  attitude  is  illustrated  with  respect 
to  mankind  in  general  and  also  with  respect  to  her  own  sex. 
The  poems  used  are  "I  Am"  and  "Which  Are  You?" 

With  love  and  helpfulness  as  the  bond  which  unite  man- 
kind, Mrs.  Wilcox  feels  there  is  no  place  for  strife  and  war- 
fare. She  assails  war  and  expresses  her  conviction  that  woman- 
kind shall  have  much  to  do  with  the  final  disarmament  of 
nations.  She  believes  implicitly  in  the  mutual  helpfulness  of 
man  and  woman  in  solving  the  great  problems  of  the  world. 
Her  own  home  life  is  one  of  constant  happiness  and  of  constant 
useful  activity.  When  asked  to  express  what  life  means  to  her 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  77 

she  wrote  an  article  for  the  Cosmopolitan  which  began  thus: 
"Exhilaration,  anticipation,  realization,  usefulness,  growth — 
these  things  life  has  always  meant  and  is  meaning  to  me.  1 
expected  much  of  life;  it  has  given,  in  all  ways,  more  than  I 
expected.  Love  has  been  more  loyal  and  lasting,  friendship 
sweeter  and  more  comprehensive,  work  more  enjoyable,  and 
fame,  because  of  its  aid  to  usefulness,  more  satisfying  than 
early  imagination  pictured."  Of  one  whose  ideals  of  life  are 
so  high  the  state  should  be  justly  proud  and  its  people  should 
delight  to  hear  her  sing: 

"I  know  we  are  building  our  heaven 

As  we  journey  along  by  the  way; 

Each  thought  is  a  nail  that  is  driven 

In  structures  that  cannot  decay, 

And  the  mansion  at  last  shall  be  given 

To  us  as  we;  build  it  today." 

It  was  not  until  after  her  return  from  the  University  that 
Ella  Wheeler  discovered  that  her  poems  had  a  money  value. 
She  sent  Frank  Leslie's  Publishing  House  three  little  poema 
written  in  one  day.  These  were  accepted  and  a  check  sent  her 
for  ten  dollars.  She  now  bent  every  effort  towards  making  her 
literary  efforts  return  substantial  aid  to  herself  and  her  family. 
It  was  all  her  own  effort  and  the  worth  of  her  productions  that 
brought  her  success,  for  she  had  no  one  to  aid  her  in  secur- 
ing publication.  She  sent  her  poems  to  various  magazines, — 
a  practise  she  still  continues.  During  the  years  1912  and  1913, 
she  had  poems  and  prose  productions  listed  in  the  following 
periodicals:  Current  Literature,  Everybody's,  Good  House- 
keeping, Ladies'  Home  Journal,  Collier's  Magazine,  New  Eng- 
land Magazine,  The  Bookman,  Lippincott's,  Forum,  Cosmopoli- 
tan, Musician,  Current  Opinion,  and  Hearst's  magazine. 

Mrs.  Wilcox  has  attempted  only  one  long  narrative  poem, 
"Maurine."  In  this  she  endeavors  to  set  forth  the  doctrine  of 
what  she  regards  as  the  highest  type  of  friendship.  Her  col- 
lections of  poems  bear  the  following  titles:  Drops  of  Water, 
Shells,  Poems  of  Passion,  Three  Women,  An  Ambitious  Man, 
Everyday,  Thought  in  Prose  and  Verse,  Poems  of  Pleasure, 
Kingdom  of  Love  and  Other  Poems,  An  Erring  Woman's  Love, 
Men,  Women  and  Emotions,  The  Beautiful  Land  of  Nod,  Poems 
of  Power,  The  Heart  of  the  New  Thought,  Sonnets  of  Abelard 
and  Heloise,  Poems  of  Experience,  Yesterday,  Poems  of  Prog- 
ress, Maurine,  and  Poems  of  Problems. 

Some  time  after  a  brief  venture  in  editorial  work,  she  was 
married,  1884,  to  Robert  M.  Wilcox,  a  business  man  of  New 
York  City.  Their  home  life  in  the  city  and  by  the  seashore 
at  Granite  Bay,  Short  Beach,  Connecticut,  has  been  most  de- 
lightful to  them.  They  have  been  able  to  travel  extensively 
and  in  this  manner  to  realize  many  of  Mrs.  Wilcox's  early 
dreams.  The  following  poems  are  from  "The  Kingdom  of 
Love"  and  "Poems  of  Power." 


78  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

THE  TWO  GLASSES 

The  following:  poems  of  Mrs.  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  are  reprinted 
here  by  permission  of  the  publishers  from  her  copyrighted 
books,  of  which  W.  B.  Conkey  Co.,  Chicago,  are  the  exclusive 
American  publishers. 

There  sat  two  glasses  filled  to  the  brim, 

On  a  rich  man's  table,  rim  to  rim. 

One  was  ruddy  and  red  as  blood, 

And  one  was  clear  as  the  crystal  flood. 

Said  the  glass  of  wine  to  his  paler  brother: 

"Let  us  tell  tales  of  the  past  to  each  other. 

I  can  tell  of  a  banquet,  and  revel,  and  mirth, 

Where  I  was  king,  for  I  ruled  in  might; 

For  the  proudest  and  grandest  souls  on  earth 

Fell  under  my  touch,  as  though  struck  with  blight. 

From  the  heads  of  kings  I  have  torn  the  crown; 

From  the  heights  of  fame  I  have  hurled  men  down. 

I  have  blasted  many  an  honored  name; 

I  have  taken  virtue  and  given  shame; 

I  have  tempted  the  youth  with  a  sip,  a  taste, 

That  has  made  his  future  a  barren  waste. 

Far  greater  than  any  king  am  I 

Or  than  any  army  beneath  the  sky. 

I  have  made  the  arm  of  the  driver  fail, 

And  sent  the  train  from  the  iron  rail. 

I  have  made  good  ships  go  down  at  sea, 

And  the  shrieks  of  the  lost  were  sweet  to  me. 

Fame,  strength,  wealth,  genius  before  me  fall; 

And  my  might  and  power  are  over  all! 

Ho,  ho!  pale  brother,"  said  the  wine, 

"Can  you  boast  of  deeds  as  great  as  mine?" 

Said  the  water  glass;  "I  can  not  boast 
Of  a  king  dethroned,  or  a  murdered  host, 
But  I  can  tell  of  hearts  that  were  sad 
By  my  crystal  drops  made  bright  and  glad; 
Of  thirst  I  have  quenched,  and  brows  I  have  laved; 
Of  hands  I  have  cooled,  and  souls  I  have  saved. 
I  have  leaped  through  the  valley,  and  dashed  down  the  moun- 
tain, 

Slept  in  the  sunshine  and  dripped  from  the  fountain. 
I  have  burst  my  cloud-fetters,  and  dropped  from  the  sky, 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  79 

And  everywhere  gladdened  the  prospects  and  eye; 

I  have  eased  the  hot  forehead  of  fever  and  pain; 

I  have  made  the  parched  meadows  grow  fertile  with  grain. 

I  can  tell  of  the  powerful  wheel  of  the  mill, 

That  ground  out  the  flour,  and  turned  at  my  will, 

I  can  tell  of  manhood  debased  by  you, 

That  I  have  uplifted  and  crowned  anew. 

I  cheer,  I  help,  I  strengthen  and  aid; 

I  gladden  the  hearts  of  man  and  maid; 

I  set  the  wine-chained  captive  free, 

And  all  are  better  for  knowing  me." 

These  are  the  tales  they  told  each  other, 
The  glass  of  wine  and  its  paler  brother, 
As  they  sat  together,  filled  to  the  brim, 
On  a  rich  man's  table  rim  to  rim. 


THE  KINGDOM  OP  LOVE 

In  the  dawn  of  the  day  when  the  sea  and  the  earth 

Reflected  the  sun-rise  above, 

I  set  forth  with  a  heart  full  of  courage  and  mirth 

To  seek  for  the  Kingdom  of  Love. 

I  asked  of  a  poet  I  met  on  the  way 

Which  cross-road  would  lead  me  aright. 

And  he  said:  "Follow  me,  and  ere  long  you  shall  see 

Its  glittering  turrets  of  light." 

And  soon  In  the  distance  the  city  shone  fair. 

"Look  yonder,"  he  said;  "how  it  gleams!" 

But  alas!  for  the  hopes  that  were  doomed  to  despair, 

It  was  only  the  "Kingdom  of  Dreams." 

Then  the  next  man  I  asked  was  a  gay  cavalier, 

And  he  said:     "Follow  me,  follow  me;" 

And  with  laughter  and  song  we  went  speeding  along 

By  the  shores  of  Life's  beautiful  sea. 

Then  we  came  to  a  valley  more  tropical  far 
Than  the  wonderful  vale  of  Cashmere, 
And  I  saw  from  a  bower  a  face  like  a  flower 
Smile  out  on  the  gay  cavalier. 


80  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

And  he  said:  "We  have  come  to  humanity's  goal: 
Here  love  and  delight  are  intense." 
But  alas  and  alas!  for  the  hopes  of  my  soul — 
It  was  only  the  "Kingdom  of  Sense." 

As  I  journeyed  more  slowly  I  met  on  the  road 

A  coach  with  retainers  behind. 

And  they  said:  ''Follow  me,  for  our  lady's  abode 

Belongs  in  that  realm,  you  will  find." 

'Twas  a  grand  dame  of  fashion,  a  newly-made  bride, 

I  followed  encouraged  and  bold; 

But  my  hopes  died  away  like  the  last  gleams  of  day, 

For  we  came  to  the  "Kingdom  of  Gold." 

At  the  door  of  a  cottage  I  asked  a  fair  maid. 

"I  have  heard  of  that  realm,"  she  replied; 

"But  my  feet  never  roam  from  the  'Kingdom  of  Home/ 

So  I  know  not  the  way,"  and  she  sighed. 

I  looked  on  the  cottage;  how  restful  it  seemed! 

And  the  maid  was  as  fair  as  a  dove. 

Great  light  glorified  my  soul  as  I  cried: 

"Why,  home  is  the  'Kingdom  of  Love.'  " 


THE  TENDRIL'S  FATE 

Under  the  snow  in  the  dark  and  the  cold, 
A  pale  little  sprout  was  humming; 
Sweetly  it  sang,  'neath  the  frozen  mold, 
Of  the  beautiful  days  that  were  coming. 

"How  foolish  your  songs,"  said  a  lump  of  clay, 
"What  is  there,"  it  asked,  "to  prove  them?" 
"Just  look  at  the  walls  between  you  and  the  day, 
Now  have  you  the  strength  to  move  them?" 

But  under  the  ice  and  under  the  snow, 
The  pale  little  sprout  kept  singing, 
"I  cannot  tell  how,  but  I  know,  I  know, 
I  know  what  the  days  are  bringing. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  81 

"Birds  and  blossoms  and  buzzing  bees, 
Blue,  blue  skies  above  me, 
Bloom  on  the  meadows  and  buds  on  the  trees, 
And  the  great  glad  sun  to  love  me." 

A  pebble  spoke  next.  "You  are  quite  absurd," 

It  said,  "with  your  songs'  insistence; 

For  I  never  saw  a  tree  or  a  bird, 

So  of  course  there  are  none  in  existence." 

"But  I  know,  I  know,"  the  tendril  cried 
In  beautiful  sweet  unreason; 
Till  lo!  from  its  prison,  glorified, 
It  burst  in  the  glad  spring  season. 


THREE  FRIENDS 

Of  all  the  blessings  which  my  life  has  known, 
I  value  most,  and  most  praise  God  for  three: 
Want,  Loneliness,  and  Pain,  those  comrades  true,* 

Who  masqueraded  in  the  garb  of  foes 
For  many  a  year,  and  filled  my  heart  with  dread. 
Yet  fickle  joy,  like  false,  pretentious  friends, 
Has  proved  less  worthy  than  this  trio.     First, 

Want  taught  me  labor,  led  me  up  the  steep 
And  toilsome  paths  to  hills  of  pure  delight, 
Trod  only  by  the  feet  that  know  fatigue, 
And  yet  press  on  until  the  heights  appear. 

Then  Loneliness  and  hunger  of  the  heart 
Sent  me  upreaching  to  the  realms  of  space, 
Till  all  the  silences  grew  eloquent, 
And  all  their  loving  forces  hailed  me  friend. 

Last,  Pain  taught  prayer!  placed  in  my  hand  the  staff 
Of  close  communion  with  the  over-soul, 
That  I  might  lean  upon  it  to  the  end, 
And  find  myself  made  strong  for  any  strife. 


82  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

And  then  these  three  who  had  pursued  my  steps 
Like  stern,  relentless  foes,  year  after  year, 
Unmasked,  and  turned  their  faces  full  on  me. 
And  lo!  they  were  divinely  beautiful, 
For  through  them  shown  the  lustrous  eyes  of  Love. 


AMBITION'S  TRAIL 

If  all  the  end  of  this  continuous  striving 

Were  simply  to  attain, 

How  poor  would  seem  the  planning  and  contriving, 

The  endless  urging  and  the  hurried  driving 

Of  body,  heart  and  brain! 

But  ever  in  the  wake  of  true  achieving, 

There  shines  this  glowing  trail — 

Some  other  soul  will  be  spurred  on,  conceiving 

New  strength  and  hope,  in  its  own  power  believing, 

Because  thou  didst  not  fail. 

Not  thine  alone  the  glory,  nor  the  sorrow, 
If  thou  dost  miss  the  goal; 
Undreamed  of  lives  in  many  a  far  to-morrow 
From  thee  their  weakness  or  their  force  shall  borrow- 
On,  on!  ambitious  soul. 


MORNING  PRAYER 

Let  me  today  do  something  that  shall  take 

A  little  sadness  from  the  world's  vast  store, 

And  may  I  be  so  favored  as  to  make 

Of  joy's  toq  scanty  sum  a  little  more. 

Let  me  not  hurt,  by  any  selfish  deed 

Or  thoughtless  word,  the  heart  of  foe  or  friend; 

Nor  would  I  pass,  unseeing,  worthy  need, 

Or  sin  by  silence  when  I  should  defend. 

However  meagre  be  my  worldly  wealth 

Let  me  give  something  that  shall  aid  my  kind, 

A  word  of  courage,  or  a  thought  of  help, 

Dropped  as  I  pass  for  troubled  hearts  to  find. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Let  me  tonight  look  back  across  the  span 
'Twixt  dawn  and  dark,  and  to  my  conscience  say 
Because  of  some  good  act  to  beast  or  man — 
"The  world  is  better  that  I  lived  today." 

I  AM 

I  know  not  whence  I  came, 

I  know  not  whither  I  go; 

But  the  fact  stands  clear  that  I  am  here 

In  this  world  of  pleasure  and  woe. 

And  out  of  the  mist  and  murk 

Another  truth  shines  plain: 

It  is  my  power  each  day  and  hour 

To  add  to  its  joy  or  its  pain. 

I  know  that  the  earth  exists, 

It  is  none  of  my  business  why; 

I  cannot  find  out  what  it's  all  about, 

I  would  but  waste  time  to  try. 

My  life  is  a  brief,  brief  thing, 

I  am  here  for  a  little  space, 

And  while  I  stay  I  should  like,  if  I  may, 

To  brighten  and  better  the  place. 

The  trouble,  I  think,  with  us  all 

Is  the  lack  of  a  high  conceit. 

If  each  man  thought  he  was  sent  to  this  spot 

To  make  it  a  bit  more  sweet, 

How  soon  we  could  gladden  the  world, 

How  easily  right  all  wrong, 

If  nobody  shirked,  and  each  one  worked 

To  help  his  fellows  along. 

Cease  wondering  why  you  came — 
Stop  looking  for  faults  and  flaws, 
Rise  up  today  in  your  pride  and  say, 
"I  am  a  part  of  the  First  Great  Cause! 
However  full  the  world, 
There  is  room  for  an  earnest  man. 
It  had  need  of  me  or  I  would  not  be — 
I  am  here  to  strengthen  the  plan." 


84  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

WHICH  ABE  YOU? 

There  are  two  kinds  of  people  on  earth  today; 
Just  two  kinds  of  people,  no  more,  I  say. 

Not  the  sinner  and  saint,  for  'tis  well  understood, 
The  good  are  half  bad,  and  the  bad  are  half  good. 

Not  the  rich  and  the  poor,  for  to  rate  a  man's  wealth, 

Tou  must  first  know  the  state  of  his  conscience  and  health. 

Not  the  humble  and  proud,  for  in  life's  little  span, 
Who  puts  on  vain  airs,  is  not  counted  a  man. 

Not  the  happy  and  sad,  for  the  swift  flying  years 
Bring  each  man  his  laughter  and  each  man  his  tears. 

No;  the  kinds  of  people  on  earth  I  mean, 

Are  the  people  who  lift  and  the  people  who  lean. 

Wherever  you  go,  you  will  find  the  earth's  masses 
Are  always  divided  in  just  these  two  classes. 

And,  oddly  enough,  you  will  find  too,  I  ween, 
There's  only  one  lifter  to  twenty  who  lean. 

In  which  class  are  you?    Are  you  easing  the  load 
Of  overtaxed  lifters,  who  toil  down  the  road? 

Or  are  you  a  leaner,  who  lets  others  share 
Your  portion  of  labor,  and  worry  and  care. 


RAY  STANNARD  BAKER. 

(David  Gra: 


Ray  Stannard  Baker  was  born  in  1870  at  Lansing,  Michi- 
gan, and  came  to  St.  Croix  Falls,  Wisconsin,  with  his  parents 
at  the  age  of  five.  Here  he  spent  his  boyhood  and  youth.  He 
returned  to  the  Agricultural  College  of  his  native  state  for 
study,  and  received  his  degree  from  that  institution,  afterwards 
attending  the  University  for  a  short  time.  He  then  went  into 
business  with  his  father  at  St.  Croix  Falls,  but  the  desire  to 
write  was  strong  upon  him,  and  he  began  his  career  of  author- 
ship. During  recent  years  his  residence  has  been  in  Amherst, 
Massachusetts,  but  he  visits  Wisconsin  every  summer.  He  is 
one  of  the  state's  most  voluminous  writers.  He  has  the  habit 
of  keen  and  sympathetic  observation,  and  this  quality,  when 
combined,  as  it  has  been  in  his  case,  with  extensive  and 
judicious  travel  and  reading,  usually  results  in  a  considerable 
literary  output.  Those  of  us  who  have  read  Mr.  Baker's 
magazine  articles  and  books  feel  that  the  writer  has  seen  a 
great  many  things, — that  he  has  seen  them  with  his  own  eyes, 
and  that  he  has  seen  them  intelligently.  Aside  from  the  fact 
that  nearly  all  of  his  works  grow  rather  from  observation  of 
men  and  things  than  from  a  study  of  philosophy  or  meta- 
physics, Mr.  Baker's  range  of  interest  has  been  exceedingly 
wide.  Perhaps  he  is  best  known  as  a  writer  on  social,  political, 
and  economic  subjects,  but  the  selections  given  here  from  "The 
Boys'  Book  of  Inventions,"  (I  and  II),  indicate  a  field  of 
interest  that  is  entirely  apart  from  politics. 

The  editors  feel  bound,  in  justice  to  Mr.  Baker,  to  say  that 
he  feared  that  our  readers  would  think  that  we  had  erred  In 
choosing  the  accounts  of  inventions  which  have  progressed  so 
immeasurably  since  his  articles  were  written.  The  editors,  on 
the  other  hand,  desired  to  do  precisely  the  thing  that  Mr. 
Baker  feared  to  have  them  do.  They  desire  to  show  what  a 
keen,  well-trained  observer  saw  in  these  inventions,  which  now 
play  so  vital  a  part  in  our  lives,  when  the  inventions  were 
new.  Further,  it  is  our  desire  that  the  name  of  Professor 
Langley,  of  Washington,  D.  C.,  should  be  properly  honored  in 
connection  with  the  advance  of  the  science  of  aviation.  Indeed, 
but  recently,  when  tried  by  an  experienced  aviator,  his  machine 
flew  successfully.  Professor  Langley  died  as  an  indirect  result 
of  his  untiring,  unselfish,  and  heroic  efforts  in  this  then  new 


86  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

cause.  In  spite  of  ridicule  and  contempt,  in  spite  of  lack  of 
support,  he  went  courageously  ahead;  and  it  is  right  that  the 
boys  of  Wisconsin  should  know  that  a  young  man  of  their  state 
has  given  due  credit  in  his  book  to  this  heroic  soul. 


THROUGH   Till     AIR 

Prom  "THE  BOYS'  BOOK  OF  INVENTIONS."  Chapter  IX,  by  Ray 
Stannard   Baker.     Copyright,   1899,   by   Doubleday,   Page  &  Co. 

Probably  no  American  inventor  of  flying  machines  is 
better  known  or  has  been  more  successful  in  his  experi- 
ments than  Professor  S.  P.  Langloy,  the  distinguished  sec- 
retary of  the  Smithsonian  Institution  at  Washington.  Pro- 
fessor Langley  has  built  a  machine  with  wings,  driven  by 
a  steam-engine,  and  wholly  without  gas  or  other  lifting 
power  beyond  its  own  internal  energy.  And  this  ma- 
chine, to  which  has  been  given  the  name  Aerodrome  (air- 
runner),  actually  flies  for  considerable  distances.  So 
successful  were  Professor  Langley 's  early  tests,  that  the 
United  States  Government  recently  made  a  considerable 
appropriation  to  enable  him  to  carry  forward  his  ex- 
periments in  the  hope  of  finally  securing  a  practical  flying 
machine.  His  work  is,  therefore,  the  most  significant  and 
important  of  any  now  before  the  public  (1899). 

The  invention  of  the  aerodrome  was  the  result  of  long 
years  of  persevering  and  exacting  labor,  with  so  many 
disappointments  and  set-backs  that  one  cannot  help  ad- 
miring the  astonishing  patience  which  kept  hope  alive 
to  the  end.  Early  in  his  experiments,  Professor  Langley 
had  proved  positively,  by  mathematical  calculations,  that 
a  machine  could  be  made  to  fly,  provided  its  structure 
were  light  enough  and  the  actuating  power  great  enough. 
Therefore,  he  was  not  in  pursuit  of  a  mere  will-o'-the- 
wisp.  It  was  a  mechanical  difficulty  which  he  had  to  sur- 
mount, and  he  surmounted  it. 


RAY  STANNARD  BAKER 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  89 

Professor  Langley  made  his  first  experiments  more 
than  twelve  years  ago  at  Allegheny,  Pennsylvania.  *  *  * 
Professor  Langley  formed  the  general  conclusion  that  by 
simply  moving  any  given  weight  in  plate  form  fast  enough 
in  a  horizontal  path  through  the  air  it  was  possible  to 
sustain  it  with  very  little  power.  It  was  proved  that,  if 
horizontal  flight  without  friction  could  be  insured,  200 
pounds  of  plates  could  be  moved  through  the  air  and 
sustained  upon  it  at  the  speed  of  an  express  train,  with 
the  expenditure  of  only  one  horse-power,  and  that,  of 
course,  without  using  any  gas  to  lighten  the  weight. 

Every  boy  who  has  skated  knows  that  when  the  ice 
is  very  thin  he  must  skate  rapidly,  else  he  may  break 
through.  In  the  same  way,  a  stone  may  be  skipped  over 
the  water  for  considerable  distances.  If  it  stops  in  any 
one  place  it  sinks  instantly.  In  exactly  the  same  way, 
the  plate  of  brass,  if  left  in  any  one  place  in  the  air,  would 
instantly  drop  to  the  earth ;  but  if  driven  swiftly  forward 
in  a  horizontal  direction  it  rests  only  an  instant  in  any 
particular  place,  and  the  air  under  it  at  any  single  moment 
does  not  have  time  to  give  way,  so  to  speak,  before  it 
has  passed  over  a  new  area  of  air.  In  fact,  Professor 
Langley  came  to  the  conclusion  that  flight  was  theoreti- 
cally possible  with  engines  he  could  then  build,  since  he 
was  satisfied  that  engines  could  be  constructed  to  weigh 
less  than  twenty  pounds  to  the  horse-power,  and  that  one 
horse-power  would  support  two  hundred  pounds  if  the 
flight  was  horizontal. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  aerodrome.  Professor 
Langley  had  worked  out  its  theory,  and  now  came  the 
much  more  difficult  task  of  building  a  machine  in  which 
theory  should  take  form  in  fact.  In  the  first  place,  there 
was  the  vast  problem  of  getting  an  engine  light  enough 


90  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

to  do  the  work.  A  few  years  ago  an  engine  that  developed 
one  horse-power  weighed  nearly  as  much  as  an  actual 
horse.  Professor  Langley  wished  to  make  one  weighing 
only  twenty  pounds,  a  feat  never  before  accomplished. 
And  then,  having  made  his  engine,  how  was  he  to  apply 
the  power  to  obtain  horizontal  speed?  Should  it  be  by 
flapping  wings  like  a  bird,  or  by  a  screw  propeller  like 
a  ship!  This  question  led  him  into  a  close  study  of  the 
bird  compared  with  the  man.  He  found  how  wonderfully 
the  two  were  alike  in  bony  formation,  how  curiously  the 
skeleton  of  a  bird's  wing  was  like  a  man's  arm,  and  yet 
he  finally  decided  that  flapping  wings  would  not  make 
the  best  propeller  for  his  machine.  Men  have  not  adopted 
machinery  legs  for  swift  locomotion,  although  legs  are 
nature's  models,  but  they  have,  rather,  constructed 
wheels — contrivances  which  practically  do  not  exist  in 
nature.  Therefore,  while  Professor  Langley  admits  that 
successful  flying  machines  may  one  day  be  made  with 
flapping  wings,  he  began  his  experiments  with  the  screw 
propeller. 

There  were  three  great  problems  in  building  the  flying 
machine.  First,  an  engine  and  boilers  light  enough  and 
at  the  same  time  of  sufficient  power.  Second,  a  structure 
which  should  be  rigid  and  very  light.  Third,  the  enor- 
mously difficult  problem  of  properly  balancing  the  ma- 
chine, which,  Professor  Langley  says,  took  years  to 
solve.  »  »  * 

Professor  Langley  established  an  experimental  sta- 
tion in  the  Potomac  River,  some  miles  below  Washington. 
An  old  scow  was  obtained,  and  a  platform  about  twenty 
feet  high  was  built  on  top  of  it.  To  this  spot,  in  1893, 
the  machine  was  taken,  and  here  failure  followed  failure ; 
the  machine  would  not  fly  properly,  and  yet  every  failure, 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  91 

costly  as  it  might  be  in  time  and  money,  brought  some 
additional  experience.  Professor  Langley  found  out  that 
the  aerodrome  must  begin  to  fly  against  the  wind,  just 
in  the  opposite  way  from  a  ship.  He  found  that  he  must 
get  up  full  speed  in  his  engine  before  the  machine  was 
allowed  to  go,  in  the  same  way  that  a  soaring  bird  must 
make  an  initial  run  on  the  ground  before  it  can  mount 
into  the  air,  and  this  was,  for  various  reasons,  a  difficult 
problem.  And  then  there  was  the  balancing. 

"If  the  reader  will  look  at  the  hawk  or  any  soaring 
bird,"  says  Professor  Langley,  "he  will  see  that  as  it 
sails  through  the  air  without  flapping  the  wing,  there 
are  hardly  two  consecutive  seconds  of  its  flight  in  which 
it  is  not  swaying  a  little  from  side  to  side,  lifting  one 
wing  or  the  other,  or  turning  in  a  way  that  suggests  an 
acrobat  on  a  tight-rope,  only  that  the  bird  uses  its  widely 
outstretched  wings  in  place  of  the  pole. ' ' 

It  must  be  remembered  that  air  currents,  unlike  the 
Gulf  Stream,  do  not  flow  steadily  in  one  direction.  They 
are  forever  changing  and  shifting,  now  fast,  now  slow, 
with  something  of  the  commotion  and  restlessness  of  the 
rapids  below  Niagara. 

All  of  these  things  Professor  Langley  had  to  meet  as 
a  part  of  the  difficult  balancing  problem,  and  it  is  hardly 
surprising  that  nearly  three  years  passed  before  the  ma- 
chine was  actually  made  to  fly — on  March  6,  1896. 

"I  had  journeyed,  perhaps  for  the  twentieth  time," 
says  Professor  Langley,  "to  the  distant  river  station,  and 
recommenced  the  weary  routine  of  another  launch,  with 
very  moderate  expectation  indeed;  and  when,  on  that, 
to  me,  memorable  afternoon  the  signal  was  given  and 
the  aerodrome  sprang  into  the  air,  I  watched  it  from  the 
shore  with  hardly  a  hope  that  the  long  series  of  accidents 


92  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

had  come  to  a  close.  And  yet  it  had,  and  for  the  first 
time  the  aerodrome  swept  continuously  through  the  air 
like  a  living  thing,  and  as  second  after  second  passed  on 
the  face  of  the  stop-watch,  until  a  minute  had  gone  by, 
and  it  still  flew  on,  and  as  I  heard  the  cheering  of  the 
few  spectators,  I  felt  that  something  had  been  accom- 
plished at  last;  for  never  in  any  part  of  the  world,  or  in 
any  period,  had  any  machine  of  man's  construction  sus- 
tained itself  in  the  air  before  for  even  half  of  this  brief 
time.  Still  the  aerodrome  went  on  in  a  rising  course  until, 
at  the  end  of  a  minute  and  a  half  (for  which  time  only  it 
was  provided  with  fuel  and  water),  it  had  accomplished 
a  little  over  half  a  mile,  and  now  it  settled,  rather  than 
fell,  into  the  river,  with  a  gentle  descent.  It  was  im- 
mediately taken  out  and  flown  again  with  equal  success, 
nor  was  there  anything  to  indicate  that  it  might  not  have 
flown  indefinitely,  except  for  the  limit  put  upon  it." 


MARCONI    AND   HIS    GREAT    ACHIEVEMENTS— NEW 
EXPERIMENTS  IN  WIRELESS  TELEGRAPHY 

Prom   "SECOND   BOOK   OF   INVENTIONS,"    Chapter   VII.   by   Ray 
Stannard   Baker.     Copyright.    1903,   by   Doubleday,   Page  &  Co. 

At  noon  on  Thursday  (December  12,  1901),  Marconi 
sat  waiting,  a  telephone  receiver  at  his  ear,  in  a  room  of 
the  old  barracks  on  Signal  Hill.  To  him  it  must  have 
been  a  moment  of  painful  stress  and  expectation.  Ar- 
ranged on  the  table  before  him,  all  its  parts  within  easy 
reach  of  his  hand,  was  the  delicate  receiving  instrument, 
the  supreme  product  of  years  of  the  inventor's  life,  now 
to  be  submitted  to  a  decisive  test.  A  wire  ran  out  througn 
the  window,  thence  to  a  pole,  thence  upward  to  the  kite 
which  could  be  seen  swaying  high  overhead.  It  was  a 
bluff,  raw  day;  at  the  base  of  the  cliff  300  feet  below 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  93 

thundered  a  cold  sea;  oceanward  through  the  mist  rose 
dimly  the  rude  outlines  of  Cape  Spear,  the  easternmost 
reach  of  the  North  American  Continent.  Beyond  that 
rolled  the  unbroken  ocean,  nearly  2,000  miles  to  the  coast 
of  the  British  Isles.  Across  the  harbor  the  city  of 
St.  John's  lay  on  its  hillside  wrapped  in  fog;  no  one 
had  taken  enough  interest  in  the  experiments  to  come 
up  here  through  the  snow  to  Signal  Hill.  Even  the 
ubiquitous  reporter  was  absent.  In  Cabot  Tower,  near  at 
hand,  the  old  signalman  stood  looking  out  to  sea,  watching 
for  ships,  and  little  dreaming  of  the  mysterious  messages 
coming  that  way  from  England.  Standing  on  that  bleak 
hill  and  gazing  out  over  the  waste  of  water  to  the  east- 
ward, one  finds  it  difficult  indeed  to  realize  that  this 
wonder  could  have  become  a  reality.  The  faith  of  the 
inventor  in  his  creation,  in  the  kite-wire,  and  in  the  in- 
struments which  had  grown  under  his  hand,  was  un- 
shaken. 

"I  believed  from  the  first/1  he  told  me,  "that  I  would 
be  successful  in  getting  signals  across  the  Atlantic." 

Only  two  persons  were  present  that  Thursday  after- 
noon in  the  room  where  the  instruments  were  set  up — 
Mr.  Marconi  and  Mr.  Kemp.  Everything  had  been  done 
that  could  be  done.  The  receiving  apparatus  was  of 
unusual  sensitiveness,  so  that  it  would  catch  even  the 
faintest  evidence  of  the  signals.  A  telephone  receiver, 
which  is  no  part  of  the  ordinary  instrument,  had  been 
supplied,  so  that  the  slightest  clicking  of  the  dots  might 
be  conveyed  to  the  inventor's  ear.  For  nearly  half  an 
hour  not  a  sound  broke  the  silence  of  the  room.  Then 
quite  suddenly  Mr.  Kemp  heard  the  sharp  click  of  the 
tapper  as  it  struck  against  the  coherer;  this,  of  course, 
was  not  the  signal,  yet  it  was  an  indication  that  some- 


94  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

thing  was  coming.  The  inventor's  face  showed  no  evi- 
dence of  excitement.  Presently  he  said : 
"See  if  you  can  hear  anything,  Kemp." 
Mr.  Kemp  took  the  receiver,  and  a  moment  later, 
faintly  and  yet  distinctly  and  unmistakably,  came  three 
little  clicks — the  dots  of  the  letter  S,  tapped  out  an  in- 
stant before  in  England.  At  ten  minutes  past  one, 
more  signals  came,  and  both  Mr.  Marconi  and  Mr.  Kemp 
assured  themselves  again  and  again  that  there  could  be 
no  mistake.  During  this  time  the  kite  gyrated  so  wildly 
in  the  air  that  the  receiving  wire  was  not  maintained  at 
the  same  height,  as  it  should  have  been;  but  again,  at 
twenty  minutes  after  two,  other  repetitions  of  the  signal 
were  received.  Thus  the  problem  was  solved.  One  of  the 
great  wonders  of  science  had  been  wrought. 

THE  ROPING  AT  I v\ sro's 

By  Ray  Stannard  Baker,  McClure's  Magazine,  Vol.  XIX.  p.  162. 
Copyright,   1902,  by  S.  S.  McClure  Company. 

•  *  *  Little  groups  of  people  were  drifting  by  to 
the  grand  stand.  Here  and  there,  from  the  corner  of  his 
eye,  as  he  bent  to  adjust  the  saddle-cinches,  Turk  McGlory 
caught  the  glint  of  a  white  skirt  or  of  a  flowing  ribbon. 
Sometimes  the  girls  stopped  to  discuss  the  contestants; 
he  heard  them  talking  of  Bud  Oliver,  and  Mason,  and 
Buster  Graham.  Suddenly,  as  he  tightened  a  latigo  strap, 
a  saucy,  smiling  face  looked  up  at  him.  Her  sister  was 
evidently  trying  to  pull  her  away,  but  she  said,  half 
teasingly : 

"I'm  wearing  your  colors,  Mr.  Texas.  You  must 
win." 

He  saw  nothing  but  deep  black  eyes,  and  he  felt  the 
blood  in  his  face.  He  couldn't  have  spoken  if  he  had 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  96 

known  that  it  was  to  save  his  life,  and  he  knew  that  he 

was  smiling  foolishly. 

#***•* 

"We're  betting  on  you,  Bud  Oliver,"  came  other 
shouts.  The  Texas  men  were  not  over-popular  in  Arizona, 
and  yet  it  was  a  sportsmanlike  crowd. 

The  babel  of  voices  ceased  sharply.  A  wiry  little 
steer,  red  and  white,  shot  into  the  field  as  if  catapulted. 
Turk  McGlory  observed  how  like  an  antelope  it  ran — 
long-legged  and  as  easily  as  the  wind  blows.  The  flag 
fell,  and  Bud  was  off;  the  judges  riding  after  him  were 
blurred  in  his  dust.  There  was  no  roper  like  Bud.  He 
waited  long  before  raising  his  rope,  bending  close  to  his 
saddle  and  riding  hard ;  then  in  what  curious,  loose,  slow 
coils  he  swung  it!  Would  he  ride  clean  over  his  steer? 
There !  he  had  reached  out  as  if  to  catch  the  steer  by  the 
tail,  and  the  rope  had  gone  over  his  head  like  a  hoop, 
horns  and  all.  Now  he  was  paying  out  to  trip  up  the 
steer.  How  they  were  running!  Turk  McGlory  rose 
suddenly  in  his  saddle. 

"Look  out  for  the  fence,"  he  roared. 

But  Bud  had  seen  it,  too,  and  the  little  roan  squatted 
like  a  rabbit.  The  steer,  reaching  the  rope's  end,  doubled 
up  and  fell — but  fell  against  the  fence.  There  had  not 
been  quite  room  enough.  Bud  was  off  saddle,  and  the 
little  roan,  knowing  well  what  was  going  on,  walked  away 
like  a  man,  pulling  hard  on  the  rope  to  keep  the  steer 
down.  If  it  had  been  a  larger  steer  or  a  fatter  one,  there 
would  have  been  no  trouble;  but  this  one  fought  like  a 
cat,  now  on  its  knees,  now  on  its  feet.  Bud  seized  it  by 
the  tail,  and  with  a  single  fierce  toss  he  laid  it  flat,  then 
he  tied — and  arms  up.  Turk  McGlory  waited  with  hands 
clenched  to  hear  the  time. 


96  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

"  Fifty  seconds. " 

So  Bud  was  beaten  by  a  second,  and  beaten  because 
he  didn't  have  a  fair  field.  How  the  crowd  howled  for 
the  Arizona  champion.  Bud  came  up  smiling  and  uncon- 
cerned. 

"Now,  McGlory,"  he  said,  "you  must  make  a  showing 
for  Texas. " 

"What  am  I  offered  on  Turk  McGlory  against  the 
field?"  shouted  the  pool-seller.  "Now's  your  last 
chance." 

"Hurrah   for   the   kid   from   Texas!"   shouted   other 
voices. 

Turk  McGlory  was  at  the  line,  astonished  to  find  him- 
self coiling  his  rope  with  so  much  ease.  He  felt  that  he 
wasn't  doing  it  himself,  but  that  some  one  else  was 
working  in  him.  The  sun  blazed  hot  on  the  field,  but 
everything  seemed  dim  and  indistinct.  To  him  all  the 
voices  kept  shouting : 

"Turk  McGlory,  Turk  McGlory,  Turk  McGlory." 

"Hurrah  for  Texas  and  the  calico  horse,"  came  a 
shout  from  the  grand  stand. 

"Wait  till  they  see  you  run,  Pinto,"  Turk  said  be- 
tween his  teeth,  and  the  pinto  stirred  nervously  under 
him. 

"Ready,"  called  Turk  McGlory,  though  not  in  Turk 
McGlory 's  voice.  He  gave  one  glance  behind  him.  The 
gi  and  stand  was  a  picture  of  a  girl  in  blue  and  white ;  she 
was  the  picture,  all  the  rest  was  frame. 

There  was  a  clatter  at  the  pen,  and  the  steer  shot  past 
him.  Instantly  he  saw  all  its  points — horns,  legs,  tail — 
and  they  spoke  to  him  with  the  meaning  of  familiarity. 
So  might  the  old  knight  have  looked  for  the  points  of 
his  adversary's  armour.  Now  that  he  was  off,  Turk's 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  97 

head  cleared  to  his  work.  The  steer  ran  with  hind  feet 
swinging  sideways,  hog-like.  He  remembered  a  steer  in 
the  Lazy  A  outfit  that  had  the  same  habit,  and  a  bad  one  it 
was,  too.  How  strange  that  he  should  think  of  such 
things  at  such  a  time!  The  steer  was  swerving  swiftly 
to  the  left.  The  pinto,  nose  forward  and  dilating,  in- 
stantly slackened  pace,  swerving  in  the  same  direction 
and  cutting  off  distance.  It  was  much  to  have  a  horse, 
pinto  though  he  be,  that  knew  his  business.  Turk's  rope 
began  to  swing,  but  he  was  wholly  unconscious  of  it.  He 
seemed  now  to  see  only  the  legless  body  of  a  steer  swim- 
ming on  a  billow  of  dust.  The  fence!  He  saw  it  with  a 
throb,  and  he  was  yet  too  far  off  to  throw.  And  there 
was  the  grand  stand  above  it,  the  men  rising,  half  in 
terror,  and  a  color  of  women.  The  steer  had  swung 
almost  round.  It  was  a  low  rail  fence,  and  between  it  and 
the  grand  stand  lay  the  racing  track.  Dimly  McGlory 
heard  shouts  of  warning.  Would  the  steer  plunge  into 
the  stand?  Dimly,  too,  glancing  back,  he  saw  the  other 
cow-men  charging  after  him  to  the  rescue.  There  was  a 
crash ;  the  steer  had  gone  through  the  fence  as  if  it  were 
pasteboard,  and  the  pinto  was  now  close  behind.  There 
was  all  too  little  room  here  in  the  track.  The  steer  would 
evidently  plunge  full  into  the  crowd.  Turk  McGlory 's 
arm  shot  forward  and  the  rope  sped.  The  pinto  sat 
sharply  back,  throwing  McGlory  well  over  the  pommel. 
To  those  in  the  grand  stand  it  seemed  as  if  the  steer, 
all  horns  and  eyes,  was  plucked  out  of  their  faces.  When 
they  looked  again,  McGlory  was  tying,  and  the  judges 
and  the  other  punchers  were  swarming  through  the  gap 
in  the  fence.  Hands  up;  and  the  pinto  easing  away  on 
the  rope !  It  was  all  lost,  McGlory  felt.  The  fence  had 
been  in  the  way.  Why  couldn't  they  provide  an  open 


98  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

field,  as  in  Texas?  These  Arizona  men  couldn't  conduct 
a  contest.  The  timer  lifted  his  hand,  and  the  shouting 
stopped. 

"Thirty-six  seconds/'  he  announced. 

"What  a  fool  of  a  timer,"  thought  Turk  McGlory. 
1  'It  can  'the  so." 

Then  he  saw  Bud  Oliver  stride  up  with  outstretched 
hand,  and  a  lump  came  in  his  throat. 

"Good  boy!'1  said  Bud.  "You've  saved  the  day  for 
Texas." 

And  then  the  crowd  pounced  on  him  and  hooted  and 
shouted,  "McGlory!  McGlory!"  until  he  was  dizzy  with 
it  all.  It  was  not  as  he  thought  it  would  be.  Two  hun- 
dred dollars  won !  And  he,  Turk  McGlory ! 

And  then  a  saucy,  flushed  face  looking  up  at  him. 

"I  knew  you  would  do  it,  Mr.  Texas,"  she  said. 

And  with  that  she  pinned  a  blue  and  white  ribbon  on 
his  vest,  and  he  looked  off  over  her  head,  and  trembled. 


"DAVID  GRAYSON." 

Surprised  as  many  of  our  readers  will  no  doubt  be  to 
find  how  wide  has  been  the  field  of  interest  covered  by  Mr. 
Baker  under  his  own  name,  the  surprise  of  most  of  them  will 
be  still  keener  when  they  know  that  the  delightful  pastoral 
sketches  in  prose  which  have  appeared  in  our  magazines  from 
time  to  time  under  the  name  of  "David  Grayson,"  are  all  writ- 
ten by  this  same  young  son  of  Wisconsin.  Who  would  have 
thought  that  the  author  of  "Adventures  in  Contentment,  "Ad- 
ventures in  Friendship,"  "The  Friendly  Road,"  and  the  novel 
called  "Hempfield,"  was  the  same  as  the  frequently  truculent 
writer  of  social  and  political  exposures? 

One  likes  Mr.  Baker  better  knowing  this  fact.  One  sees 
that  his  interests  and  ideals  are  wide,  tolerant,  and  kindly.  The 
editors  of  this  book  are  proud  to  be  among  the  first  to  intro- 
duce David  Grayson  and  Ray  Stannard  Baker  publicly  as  one 
and  the  same  man.  Mr.  Baker  has  also  written  under  the 
pen  name  of  Sturgis  B.  Rand. 

AN  ARGUMENT  WITH  A  MILLIONAIRE 

From  "ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT,"  Chapter  VII,  by  David 
Grayson.     Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

An  Argument  With  a  Millionaire. 

"Let  the  mighty  and  great 

Roll  in  splendour  and  state, 

I  envy  them  not,  I  declare  it. 

I  eat  my  own  lamb, 

My  own  chicken  and  ham, 

I  shear  my  own  sheep  and  wear  it. 

I  have  lawns,  I  have  bowers, 
I  have  fruits,  I  have  flowers, 
The  lark  is  my  morning  charmer; 
So  you  Jolly  dogs  now, 
Here's  God  bless  the  plow — 
Long  life  and  content  to  the  farmer." 
— Rhyme  on  an  old  pitcher  of  English  pottery. 


100  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

I  have  been  hearing  of  John  Starkweather  ever  since 
I  came  here.  He  is  a  most  important  personage  in  this 
community.  He  is  rich.  Horace  especially  loves  to  talk 
about  him.  Give  Horace  half  a  chance,  whether  the  sub- 
ject be  pigs  or  churches,  and  he  will  break  in  somewhere 
with  the  remark:  "As  I  was  saying  to  Mr.  Starkweather 
"  or,  "Mr.  Starkweather  says  to  me — "  How  we  love 
to  shine  by  reflected  glory!  Even  Harriet  has  not  gone 
by  unscathed ;  she,  too,  has  been  affected  by  the  bacillus 
of  admiration.  She  has  wanted  to  know  several  times 
if  I  saw  John  Starkweather  drive  by:  "The  finest  span 
of  horses  in  this  country,*1  she  says,  and  "did  you  see  his 
daughter?"  Much  other  information  concerning  the 
Starkweather  household,  culinary  and  otherwise,  is  cur- 
rent among  our  hills.  We  know  accurately  the  number 
of  Mr.  Starkweather's  bedrooms,  we  can  tell  how  much 
coal  he  uses  in  winter  and  how  many  tons  of  ice  in  sum- 
mer, and  upon  such  important  premises  we  argue  his 
riches. 

Several  times  I  have  passed  John  Starkweather's 
home.  It  lies  between  my  farm  and  the  town,  though 
not  on  the  direct  road,  and  it  is  really  beautiful  with  the 
groomed  and  guided  beauty  possible  to  wealth.  A 
stately  old  house  with  a  huge  end  chimney  of  red  bricks 
stands  with  dignity  well  back  from  the  road ;  round  about 
lie  pleasant  lawns  that  once  were  cornfields;  and  there 
are  drives  and  walks  and  exotic  shrubs.  At  first,  loving 
my  own  hills  so  well,  I  was  puzzled  to  understand  why  I 
should  also  enjoy  Starkweather's  groomed  surroundings. 
But  it  came  to  me  that  after  all,  much  as  we  may  love 
wildness,  we  are  not  wild,  nor  our  works.  What  more 
artificial  than  a  house,  or  a  barn,  or  a  fence?  And  the 
greater  and  more  formal  the  house,  the  more  formal  in- 


WISCONSIN    IN  •^CtRTa*&);  i /.\       101 

deed  must  be  the  nearer  natural  environments.  Perhaps 
the  hand  of  man  might  well  have  been  less  evident  in  de- 
veloping the  surroundings  of  the  Starkweather  home — for 
art,  dealing  with  nature,  is  so  often  too  accomplished ! 

But  I  enjoy  the  Starkweather  place  and  as  I  look  in 
from  the  road,  I  sometimes  think  to  myself  with  satisfac- 
tion: "Here  is  this  rich  man  who  has  paid  his  thousands 
to  make  the  beauty  which  I  pass  and  take  for  nothing — 
and  having  taken,  leave  as  much  behind. ' '  And  I  wonder 
sometimes  whether  he,  inside  his  fences,  gets  more  joy 
of  it  than  I,  who  walk  the  roads  outside.  Anyway,  I  am 
grateful  to  him  for  using  his  riches  so  much  to  my  ad- 
vantage. 

On  fine  mornings  John  Starkweather  sometimes  comes 
out  in  his  slippers,  bare-headed,  his  white  vest  gleaming 
in  the  sunshine,  and  walks  slowly  around  his  garden. 
Charles  Baxter  says  that  on  these  occasions  he  is  asking 
his  gardener  the  names  of  the  vegetables.  However  that 
may  be,  he  has  seemed  to  our  community  the  very  incar- 
nation of  contentment  and  prosperity — his  position  the 
acme  of  desirability. 

What  was  my  astonishment,  then,  the  other  morning 
to  see  John  Starkweather  coming  down  the  pasture  lane 
through  my  farm.  I  knew  him  afar  off,  though  I  had  never 
met  him.  May  I  express  the  inexpressible  when  I  say  he 
had  a  rich  look ;  he  walked  rich,  there  was  richness  in  the 
confident  crook  of  his  elbow,  and  in  the  positive  twitch  of 
the  stick  he  carried:  a  man  accustomed  to  having  doors 
opened  before  he  knocked.  I  stood  there  a  moment  and 
looked  up  the  hill  at  him,  and  I  felt  that  profound  curi- 
osity which  every  one  of  us  feels  every  day  of  his  life 
to  know  something  of  the  inner  impulses  which  stir  his 
nearest  neighbor.  I  should  have  liked  to  know  John 


102  WI^CONS^N    IjN    STORY    AND    SONG 


Starkweather  ;  but  I  thought  to  myself  as  I  have  thought 
so  many  times  how  surely  one  comes  finally  to  imitate  his 
surroundings.  A  farmer  grows  to  be  a  part  of  his  farm; 
the  sawdust  on  his  coat  is  not  the  most  distinctive  in- 
signia of  the  carpenter;  the  poet  writes  his  truest  lines 
upon  his  own  countenance.  People  passing  in  my  road 
take  me  to  be  a  part  of  this  natural  scene.  I  suppose 
I  seem  to  them  as  a  partridge  squatting  among  dry 
grasses  and  leaves,  so  like  the  grass  and  leaves  as  to  be 
invisible.  We  all  come  to  be  marked  upon  by  nature 
and  dismissed  —  how  carelessly!  —  as  genera  or  species. 
And  is  it  not  the  primal  struggle  of  man  to  escape  classifi- 
cation, to  form  new  differentiations? 

Sometimes  —  I  confess  it  —  when  I  see  one  passing  in 
my  road,  I  feel  like  hailing  him  and  saying  : 

"  Friend,  I  am  not  all  farmer.  I,  too,  am  a  person,  I 
am  different  and  curious.  I  am  full  of  red  blood,  I  like 
people,  all  sorts  of  people;  if  you  are  not  interested  in 
me,  at  least  I  am  intensely  interested  in  you.  Come  over 
now  and  let's  talk!" 

So  we  are  all  of  us  calling  and  calling  across  the  in- 
calculable gulfs  which  separate  us  even  from  our  nearest 
friends  ! 

Once  or  twice  this  feeling  has  been  so  real  to  me  that 
I've  been  near  to  the  point  of  hailing  utter  strangers- 
only  to  be  instantly  overcome  with  a  sense  of  the  humor- 
ous absurdity  of  such  an  enterprise.  So  I  laugh  it  off  and 
I  say  to  myself  : 

"Steady  now  :  the  man  is  going  to  town  to  sell  a  pig  ; 
he  is  coming  back  with  ten  pounds  of  sugar,  five  of  salt 
pork,  a  can  of  coffee  and  some  new  blades  for  his  mowing 
machine.  He  hasn't  time  for  talk"  —  and  so  I  come  down 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  10& 

with  a  bump  to  my  digging,  or  hoeing,  or  chopping,  or 
whatever  it  is. 

Here  I've  left  John  Starkweather  in  my  pasture  while 
I  remark  to  the  extent  of  a  page  or  two  that  I  didn't 
expect  him  to  see  me  when  he  went  by. 

I  assumed  that  he  was  out  for  a  walk,  perhaps  to  en- 
liven a  worn  appetite  (do  you  know,  confidentially,  I've 
had  some  pleasure  in  times  past  in  reflecting  upon  the 
jaded  appetites  of  millionaires!),  and  that  he  would  pass 
out  by  my  lane  to  the  country  road ;  but,  instead  of  that, 
what  should  he  do  but  climb  the  yard  fence  and  walk  over 
toward  the  barn  where  I  was  at  work. 

Perhaps  I  was  not  consumed  with  excitement:  here 
was  fresh  adventure! 

"A  farmer,"  I  said  to  myself  with  exultation,  "has 
only  to  wait  long  enough  and  all  the  world  comes  his 
way." 

I  had  just  begun  to  grease  my  farm  wagon  and  was 
experiencing  some  difficulty  in  lifting  and  steadying  the 
heavy  rear  axle  while  I  took  off  the  wheel.  I  kept  busily 
at  work,  pretending  (such  is  the  perversity  of  the  human 
mind)  that  I  did  not  see  Mr.  Starkweather.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  watching  me ;  then  he  said : 

"Good  morning,  sir." 

I  looked  up  and  said :    ' '  Oh,  good  morning ! ' ' 

"Nice  little  farm  you  have  here." 

"It's  enough  for  me,"  I  replied.  I  did  not  especially 
like  the  "little."  One  is  human. 

Then  I  had  an  absurd  inspiration:  he  stood  there  so 
trim  and  jaunty  and  prosperous.  So  rich !  I  had  a  good 
look  at  him.  He  was  dressed  in  a  woolen  jacket  coat, 
knee-trousers  and  leggings ;  on  his  head  he  wore  a  jaunty, 
cocky  little  Scotch  cap;  a  man,  I  should  judge,  about 


104  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

fifty  years  old,  well-fed  and  hearty  in  appearance,  with 
grayish  hair  and  a  good-humored  eye.  I  acted  on  my 
inspiration : 

"You've  arrived,1'  I  said,  "at  the  psychological 
moment. ' ' 

"How's  that!" 

' '  Take  hold  here  and  help  me  lift  this  axle  and  steady 
it.  I'm  having  a  hard  time  of  it." 

The  look  of  astonishment  in  his  countenance  was 
beautiful  to  see. 

For  a  moment  failure  stared  me  in  the  face.  His  ex- 
pression said  with  emphasis:  "Perhaps  you  don't  know 
who  I  am."  But  I  looked  at  him  with  the  greatest  good 
feeling  and  my  expression  said,  or  I  meant  it  to  say :  "To 
be  sure  I  don 't :  and  what  difference  does  it  make,  any- 
way!" 

"You  take  hold  here,"  I  said,  without  waiting  for 
him  to  catch  his  breath,  "and  I'll  get  hold  here.  To- 
gether we  can  easily  get  the  wheel  off." 

Without  a  word  he  set  his  cane  against  the  barn  and 
bent  his  back ;  up  came  the  axle  and  I  propped  it  with  a 
board. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "you  hang  on  there  and  steady  it 
while  I  get  the  wheel  off"  -though,  indeed,  it  didn't 
really  need  much  steadying. 

As  I  straightened  up,  whom  should  I  see  but  Harriet 
standing  stock  still  in  the  pathway  half  way  down  to  the 
barn,  transfixed  with  horror.  She  had  recognized  John 
Starkweather  and  had  heard  at  least  part  of  what  I  said 
to  him,  and  the  vision  of  that  important  man  bending  his 
back  to  help  lift  the  axle  of  my  old  wagon  was  too  ter- 
rible! She  caught  my  eye  and  pointed  and  mouthed. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  105 

When  I  smiled  and  nodded,  John  Starkweather  straight- 
ened up  and  looked  around. 

" Don't,  on  your  life,"  I  warned,  "let  go  of  that 
axle." 

He  held  on  and  Harriet  turned  and  retreated  inglo- 
riously.  John  Starkweather's  face  was  a  study! 

"Did  you  ever  grease  a  wagon?"  I  asked  him 
genially. 

"Never,"  he  said. 

"There's  more  of  an  art  in  it  than  you  think,"  I  said, 
and,  as  I  worked,  I  talked  to  him  of  the  lore  of  axle- 
grease  and  showed  him  exactly  how  to  put  it  on — neither 
too  much  nor  too  little,  and  so  that  it  would  distribute 
itself  evenly  when  the  wheel  was  replaced. 

"There's  a  right  way  of  doing  everything,"  I  ob- 
served. 

"That's  so,"  said  John  Starkweather,  "if  I  could 
only  get  workmen  that  believed  it." 

By  that  time  I  could  see  that  he  was  beginning  to  be 
interested.  I  put  back  the  wheel,  gave  it  a  light  turn 
and  screwed  on  the  nut.  He  helped  me  with  the  other 
end  of  the  axle  with  all  good  humor. 

"Perhaps,"  I  said,  as  engagingly  as  I  knew  how, 
"you'd  like  to  try  the  art  yourself?  You  take  the  grease 
this  time  and  I'll  steady  the  wagon." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  laughing,  "I'm  in  for  any- 
thing." 

He  took  the  grease  box  and  the  paddle — less  gingerly 
than  I  thought  he  would. 

"Is  that  right?"  he  demanded,  and  so  he  put  on  the 
grease.  And  oh,  it  was  good  to  see  Harriet  in  the  door- 
way! 


106  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

"Steady  there,'*  I  said,  "not  so  much  at  the  end;  now 
put  the  box  down  on  the  reach." 

And  so  together  we  greased  the  wagon,  talking  all  the 
time  in  the  friendliest  way.  I  actually  believe  that  he 
was  having  a  pretty  good  time.  At  least  it  had  the  virtue 
of  unexpectedness.  He  wasn't  bored! 

When  he  had  finished,  we  both  straightened  our  backs 
and  looked  at  each  other.  There  was  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye;  then  we  both  laughed.  "He's  all  right,"  I  said  to 
myself.  I  held  up  my  hands,  then  he  held  up  his ;  it  was 
hardly  necessary  to  prove  that  wagon-greasing  was  not  a 
delicate  operation. 

"It's  a  good,  wholesome  sign,"  I  said,  "but  it'll  come 
off.  Do  you  happen  to  remember  a  story  of  Tolstoi's 
called,  'Ivan  the  Foolt'  " 

("What  is  a  farmer  doing  quoting  Tolstoi!"  remarked 
his  countenance — though  he  said  not  a  word.) 

"In  the  kingdom  of  Ivan,  you  remember,"  I  said,  it 
was  the  rule  that  whoever  had  hard  places  on  his  hands 
came  to  table,  but  whoever  had  not  must  eat  what  the 
others  left." 

Thus  I  led  him  up  the  back  steps  and  poured  him  a 
basin  of  hot  water — which  I  brought  myself  from  the 
kitchen,  Harriet  having  marvelously  and  completely  dis- 
appeared. We  both  washed  our  hands,  talking  with  great 
good  humor. 

When  we  had  finished  I  said:  "Sit  down,  friend,  if 
you've  time,  and  let's  talk." 

So  he  sat  down  on  one  of  the  logs  of  my  woodpile :  a 
solid  sort  of  man,  rather  warm  after  his  recent  activities. 
He  looked  me  over  with  some  interest  and,  I  thought, 
friendliness. 

"Why  does  a  man  like  you,"  he  asked  finally,  "waste 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  107 

himself  on  a  little  farm  back  here  in  the  country  ?" 

For  a  single  instant  I  came  nearer  to  being  angry 
than  I  have  been  for  a  long  time.  Waste  myself !  So  we 
are  judged  without  knowledge.  I  had  a  sudden  impulse 
to  demolish  him  (if  L  could)  with  the  nearest  sarcasms 
I  could  lay  hand  to.  He  was  so  sure  of  himself!  "Oh, 
well,"  I  thought,  with  vainglorious  superiority,  "he 
doesn't  know."  So  I  said: 

"What  would  you  have  me  be — a  millionaire?" 

He  smiled,  but  with  a  sort  of  sincerity. 

"You  might  be,"  he  said;  "who  can  tell!" 

I  laughed  outright;  the  humor  of  it  struck  me  as  de- 
licious. Here  I  had  been,  ever  since  I  first  heard  of  John 
Starkweather,  rather  gloating  over  him  as  a  poor  suffer- 
ing millionaire  (of  course  millionaires  are  unhappy),  and 
there  he  sat,  ruddy  of  face  and  hearty  of  body,  pitying 
me  for  a  poor  unfortunate  farmer  back  here  in  the 
country!  Curious,  this  human  nature  of  ours,  isn't  it? 
But  how  infinitely  beguiling! 

So  I  sat  down  beside  Mr.  Starkweather  on  the  log 
and  crossed  my  legs.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  set  foot  in  a 
new  country. 

"Would  you  really  advise  me,"  I  asked,  "to  start  in 
to  be  a  millionaire?" 

He  chuckled:  "Well,  that's  one  way  of  putting  it. 
Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star ;  but  begin  by  making  a  few 
dollars  more  a  year  than  you  spend.  When  I  began — 

He  stopped  short  with  an  amused  smile,  remembering 
that  I  did  not  know  who  he  was. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "I  understand  that." 

"A  man  must  begin  small" — he  was  on  pleasant 
ground — "and  anywhere  he  likes,  a  few  dollars  here,  a 
few  there.  He  must  work  hard,  he  must  save,  he  must  be 


108  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

both  bold  and  cautious.  I  know  a  man  who  began  when 
he  was  about  your  age  with  total  assets  of  ten  dollars  and 
a  good  digestion.  He's  now  considered  a  fairly  wealthy 
man.  He  has  a  home  in  the  city,  a  place  in  the  country, 
and  he  goes  to  Europe  when  he  likes.  He  has  so  arranged 
his  affairs  that  young  men  do  most  of  the  work  and  he 
draws  the  dividends — and  all  in  a  little  more  than 
twenty  years.  I  made  every  single  cent — but,  as  I  said, 
it's  a  penny  business  to  start  with.  The  point  is,  I  like 
to  see  young  men  ambitious." 

" Ambitious, "  I  asked,  "for  what?" 

"Why,  to  rise  in  the  world;  to  get  ahead." 

"I  know  you'll  pardon  me,"  I  said,  "for  appearing  to 
cross-examine  you,  but  I'm  tremendously  interested  in 
these  things.  What  do  you  mean  by  rising?  And  who 
am  I  to  get  ahead  of?" 

He  looked  at  me  in  astonishment,  and  with  evident 
impatience  at  my  consummate  stupidity. 

"I  am  serious,"  I  said.  "I  really  want  to  make  the 
best  I  can  of  my  life.  It 's  the  only  one  I  've  got. ' ' 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "let  us  say  you  clear  up  five 
hundred  a  year  from  this  farm — " 

"You  exaggerate—  '  I  interrupted. 

"Do  I?"  he  laughed;  "that  makes  my  case  all  the 
better.  Now,  isn 't  it  possible  to  rise  from  that ?  Couldn't 
you  make  a  thousand  or  five  thousand  or  even  fifty 
thousand  a  year?" 

It  seems  an  unanswerable  argument:  fifty  thousand 
dollars ! 

"I  suppose  I  might,"  I  said,  "but  do  you  think  I'd 
be  any  better  off  or  happier  with  fifty  thousand  a  year 
than  I  am  now?  You  see,  I  like  all  these  surroundings 
better  than  any  other  place  I  ever  knew.  That  old  green 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  109 

hill  over  there  with  the  oak  on  it  is  an  intimate  friend 
of  mine.  I  have  a  good  corn-field  in  which  every  year 
I  work  miracles.  I've  a  cow  and  a  horse  and  a  few  pigs. 
I  have  a  comfortable  home.  My  appetite  is  perfect,  and 
I  have  plenty  of  food  to  gratify  it.  I  sleep  every  night 
like  a  boy,  for  I  haven't  a  trouble  in  this  world  to  dis- 
turb me.  I  enjoy  the  mornings  here  in  the  country ;  and 
the  evenings  are  pleasant.  Some  of  my  neighbors  have 
come  to  be  my  good  friends.  I  like  them  and  I  am  pretty 
sure  they  like  me.  Inside  the  house  there  I  have  the  best 
books  ever  written  and  I  have  time  in  the  evenings  to 
read  them — I  mean  really  read  them.  Now  the  question 
is,  would  I  be  any  better  off,  or  any  happier,  if  I  had 
fifty  thousand  a  year?11 

John  Starkweather  laughed. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  see  I've  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  philosopher." 

"Let  us  say,"  I  continued,  "that  you  are  willing  to 
invest  twenty  years  of  your  life  in  a  million  dollars." 
("Merely  an  illustration,"  said  John  Starkweather.) 
"You  have  it  where  you  can  put  it  in  the  bank  and  take 
it  out  again,  or  you  can  give  it  form  in  houses,  yachts, 
and  other  things.  Now  twenty  years  of  my  life — to  me— 
is  worth  more  than  a  million  dollars.  I  simply  can't 
afford  to  sell  it  for  that.  I  prefer  to  invest  it,  as  some- 
body or  other  has  said,  unearned  in  life.  I've  always 
had  a  liking  for  intangible  properties." 

"See  here,"  said  John  Starkweather,  "you  are  taking 
a  narrow  view  of  life.  You  are  making  your  own  pleasure 
the  only  standard.  Shouldn't  a  man  make  the  most  of 
the  talents  given  him?  Hasn't  he  a  duty  to  society?" 

"Now  you  are  shifting  your  ground,"  I  said,  "from 
the  question  of  personal  satisfaction  to  that  of  duty. 


110  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

That  concerns  me,  too.  Let  me  ask  you:  Isn't  it  im- 
portant to  society  that  this  piece  of  earth  be  plowed  and 
cultivated?" 

"Yes,  but— " 

"Isn't  it  honest  and  useful  work?" 

"Of  course." 

"Isn't  it  important  that  it  shall  not  only  be  done,  but 
well  done?" 

"Certainly." 

"It  takes  all  there  is  in  a  good  man,"  I  said,  "to  be 
a  good  farmer." 

"But  the  point  is,"  he  argued,  "might  not  the  same 
faculties  applied  to  other  things  yield  better  and  bigger 
results?" 

"That  is  a  problem,  of  course,"  I  said.  "I  tried 
money-making  once — in  a  city — and  I  was  unsuccessful 
and  unhappy;  here  I  am  both  successful  and  happy.  I 
suppose  I  was  one  of  the  young  men  who  did  the  work 
while  some  millionaire  drew  the  dividends."  (I  was 
cutting  close,  and  I  didn't  venture  to  look  at  him.)  "No 
doubt  he  had  his  houses  and  yachts  and  went  to  Europe 
when  he  liked.  I  know  I  lived  upstairs — back — where 
there  wasn't  a  tree  to  be  seen,  or  a  spear  of  green  grass, 
or  a  hill,  or  a  brook;  only  smoke  and  chimneys  and  lit- 
tered roofs.  Lord  be  thanked  for  my  escape!  Some- 
times I  think  that  Success  has  formed  a  silent  conspiracy 
against  Youth.  Success  holds  up  a  single  glittering 
apple  and  bids  Youth  strip  and  run  for  it;  and  Youth 
runs  and  Success  still  holds  the  apple." 

John  Starkweather  said  nothing. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "there  are  duties.  We  realize,  we 
farmers,  that  we  must  produce  more  than  we  ourselves 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  111 

can  eat  or  wear  or  burn.  We  realize  that  we  are  the 
foundation;  we  connect  human  life  with  the  earth.  We 
dig  and  plant  and  produce,  and,  having  eaten  at  the  first 
table  ourselves,  we  pass  what  is  left  to  the  bakers  and 
millionaires.  Did  you  ever  think,  stranger,  that  most  of 
the  wars  of  the  world  have  been  fought  for  the  control  of 
this  farmer's  second  table?  Have  you  thought  that  the 
surplus  of  wheat  and  corn  and  cotton  is  what  the  rail- 
roads are  struggling  to  carry?  Upon  our  surplus  run  all 
the  factories  and  mills;  a  little  of  it  gathered  in  cash 
makes  a  millionaire.  But  we  farmers,  we  sit  back  com- 
fortably after  dinner,  and  joke  with  our  wives  and  play 
with  our  babies,  and  let  the  rest  of  you  fight  for  the 
crumbs  that  fall  from  our  abundant  tables.  If  once  we 
really  cared  and  got  up  and  shook  ourselves,  and  said  to 
the  maid:  'Here,  child,  don't  waste  the  crusts;  gather 
'em  up  and  tomorrow  we'll  have  a  cottage  pudding,' 
where  in  the  world  would  all  the  millionaires  be?" 

Oh,  I  tell  you,  I  waxed  eloquent.  I  couldn't  let  John 
Starkweather,  or  any  other  man,  get  away  with  the  con- 
viction that  a  millionaire  is  better  than  a  farmer.  "More- 
over," I  said,  "think  of  the  position  of  the  millionaire. 
He  spends  his  time  playing  not  with  life,  but  with  the 
symbols  of  life,  whether  cash  or  houses.  Any  day  the 
symbols  may  change;  a  little  war  may  happen  along, 
there  may  be  a  defective  flue  or  a  western  breeze,  or  even 
a  panic  because  the  farmers  aren't  scattering  as  many 
crumbs  as  usual  (they  call  it  crop  failure,  but  I've  noticed 
that  the  farmers  still  continue  to  have  plenty  to  eat)  and 
then  what  happens  to  your  millionaire?  Not  knowing 
how  to  produce  anything  himself,  he  would  starve  to 
death  if  there  were  not  always,  somewhere,  a  farmer  to 
take  him  up  to  the  table." 


112  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

"You're  making  a  strong  case,"  laughed  John  Stark- 
weather. 

"Strong!"  I  said.  "It  is  simply  wonderful  what  a 
leverage  upon  society  a  few  acres  of  land,  a  cow,  a  pig  or 
two,  and  a  span  of  horses  gives  a  man.  I'm  ridiculously 
independent.  I'd  be  the  hardest  sort  of  a  man  to  dis- 
lodge or  crush.  I  tell  you,  my  friend,  a  farmer  is  like  an 
oak,  his  roots  strike  deep  in  the  soil,  he  draws  a  suffi- 
ciency of  food  from  the  earth  itself,  he  breathes  the  free 
air  around  him,  his  thirst  is  quenched  by  heaven  itself— 
and  there's  no  tax  on  sunshine." 

I  paused  for  very  lack  of  breath.  John  Starkweather 
was  laughing. 

"When  you  commiserate  me,  therefore"  ("I'm  sure 
I  shall  never  do  it  again,"  said  John  Starkweather), 
when  you  commiserate  me,  therefore,  and  advise  me  to 
rise,  you  must  give  me  really  good  reasons  for  changing 
my  occupation  and  becoming  a  millionaire.  You  must 
prove  to  me  that  I  can  be  more  independent,  more  honest, 
more  useful  as  a  millionaire,  and  that  I  shall  have  better 
and  truer  friends!" 

John  Starkweather  looked  around  at  me  (I  knew  I  had 
been  absurdly  eager  and  I  was  rather  ashamed  of  myself) 
and  put  his  hand  on  my  knee  (he  has  a  wonderfully  fine 
eye!). 

"I  don't  believe,"  he  said,  "you'd  have  any  truer 
friends." 

"Anyway,"  I  said  repentantly,  "111  admit  that  mil- 
lionaires have  their  place — at  present  I  wouldn't  do  en- 
tirely away  with  them,  though  I  do  think  they'd  enjoy 
farming  better.  And  if  I  were  to  select  a  millionaire  for 
all  the  best  things  I  know,  I  should  certainly  choose  you,. 
Mr.  Starkweather." 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  113 


He  jumped  up. 

"You  know  who  I  am?"  he  asked. 

I  nodded. 

"And  you  knew  all  the  time?" 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  you're  a  good  one!" 

We  both  laughed  and  fell  to  talking  with  the  greatest 
friendliness.  I  led  him  down  my  garden  to  show  him 
my  prize  pie-plant,  of  which  I  am  enormously  proud,  and 
I  pulled  for  him  some  of  the  finest  stalks  I  could  find. 

"Take  it  home,"  I  said,  "it  makes  the  best  pies  of  any 
pie-plant  in  this  country." 

He  took  it  under  his  arm. 

"I  want  you  to  come  over  and  see  me  the  first  chance 
you  get,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  prove  to  you  by  phys- 
ical demonstration  that  it's  better  sport  to  be  a  million- 
aire than  a  farmer — not  that  I  am  a  millionaire;  I'm  only 
accepting  the  reputation  you  give  me." 

So  I  walked  with  him  down  to  the  lane. 

"Let  me  know  when  you  grease  up  again,"  he  said, 
"and  I'll  come  over." 

So  we  shook  hands;  and  he  set  off  sturdily  down  the 
road  with  the  pie-plant  leaves  waving  cheerfully  over  his 
shoulder. 


ZONA  GALE. 

Among  the  various  types  of  literature,  the  short  story  has 
become  very  popular  in  recent  years.  Numerous  writers  are 
fond  of  the  principles  involved  in  its  construction,  and  are 
developing  this  form  beyond  many  others.  The  short  story  is 
not  new,  for  it  has  been  developed  in  many  lands  throughout 
the  past  centuries.  However,  there  has  been  a  marked  revival 
in  its  production  recently  and  Wisconsin  writers  have  been 
interested  in  developing  this  type.  Among  these  we  have  al- 
ready noticed  Hamlin  Garland.  There  will  be  several  others 
mentioned  in  these  selections,  among  whom  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  is  one  of  the  most  notable. 

Zona  Gale,  who  has  made  her  imaginative  "Friendship  Vil- 
lage" one  of  the  real  places  in  Wisconsin  life,  was  born  at 
Portage,  Wisconsin,  August  26,  1874.  This  city  continues  to 
be  her  home;  and  the  study  of  its  home  life,  its  school  life,  its 
social,  industrial,  and  religious  life  has  afforded  her  the  basis 
for  generalizing  upon  what  is  true  of  the  life  of  our  time.  Her 
characters  are  not  necessarily  Portage  people,  for  they  are 
Wisconsin  people  and  people  of  other  states  as  well.  However, 
Portage  and  Its  life  has  furnished  her  many  interesting  start- 
ing points  for  her  comments  upon  life  in  general.  She  has 
attempted  to  repay  her  community  for  this  material  furnished 
her  by  becoming  an  integral  part  of  its  community  life.  In  its 
civic  improvements,  in  its  home  life,  in  its  schools  and  in  its 
churches,  she  has  had  her  work  and  has  aspired  to  do  her  best 
towards  making  her  home  city  beautiful  and  wholesome. 

Zona  Gale  remembers  much  of  the  play  life  and  the  school 
life  in  her  home  town  during  the  eighties  and  early  nineties 
of  the  last  century.  She  has  recently  set  forth  her  idealized 
remembrance  of  these  early  experiences  in  her  book  entitled 
"When  I  Was  a  Little  Girl."  One  of  these  is  chosen  as  an  illus- 
tration of  her  work. 

Besides  the  school  training  afforded  her  by  Portage,  Zona 
Gale  attended  Wayland  Academy  at  Beaver  Dam,  Wisconsin, 
and  later  she  entered  the  University  of  Wisconsin,  from  which 
institution  she  received  the  Bachelor  of  Literature  degree  in 
1895,  and  four  years  later  the  Master's  degree. 

After  graduation  Miss  Gale  was  employed  for  a  time  on 
staffs  of  Milwaukee  and  New  York  papers.  Since  1904  she  has 
devoted  herself  to  writing  for  magazines.  She  spends  some 
time  in  New  York  and  the  East,  but  most  of  her  work  is  done 


ZONA  GALE 


WISCONSIN    IN     STORY    AND    SONG  117 

at  her  beautiful  home,  which  overlooks  the  Wisconsin  river  at 
Portage. 

Miss  Gale  writes  an  occasional  poem  for  some  magazine. 
We  give  "The  Holy  Place,"  published  in  the  Bookman  some 
years  ago,  as  an  illustration  of  her  poetry.  However,  it  is  not 
as  a  poet,  but  rather  as  a  short  story  writer  that  we  are  remem- 
bering Zona  Gale. 

Miss  Gale's  stories  have  appeared  in  the  Atlantic,  Apple- 
ton's,  the  Cosmopolitan,  Everybody's,  the  Outlook,  the  Book- 
man, and  other  magazines.  Her  first  arrangement  of  stories  in 
book  form,  "Romance  Island,"  appeared  in  1906.  A  year  later 
she  published  "The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre."  The  two 
characters  mentioned  are  an  old  couple  of  seventy  or  more, 
who,  under  the  protecting  care  of  an  old  servant,  Nichola,  live 
a  sort  of  child  life.  Their  pranks,  if  such  they  may  be  called, 
are  the  kindly  deeds  of  making  others  happy.  The  stories  pur- 
port to  be  told  by  Etarre,  who  would  have  us  believe  that 
there  is  quite  as  much  romance  in  the  lives  of  two  old  people 
busily  engaged  in  breaking  the  rules  of  the  crabbed  old  nurse 
as  there  is  in  the  lives  of  much  younger  people.  They  are  con- 
stantly on  the  alert  for  the  romance  in  the  lives  of  those  about 
them,  and  it  would  seem  that  no  love  match  in  their  neighbor- 
hood could  be  a  success  without  their  assistance.  The  spirit 
that  pervades  the  book  is  that  of  thoughtful  helpfulness. 

We  are  sure  to  lay  aside  these  stories  with  the  wish  that 
the  kindly  spirit  and  the  rich  enjoyment  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre 
might  be  true  for  all  old  people.  We  wish  every  aged  couple 
might  stand  at  the  window  at  Christmas  time  and  send  such 
telegrams  of  bequest  as  these  which  they  send  to  the  world: 

"And  from  my  spirit  to  yours  I  bequeath  the  hard-won 
knowledge  that  you  must  be  true  from  the  beginning.  But  if 
by  any  chance  you  have  not  been  so,  then  you  must  be  true 
from  the  moment  ,you  know." 

To  this  sentiment  of  Pelleas  shall  Etarre  reply:  "From  my 
spirit  to  your  spirit,  I  bequeath  some  understanding  of  the 
preciousness  of  love,  and  the  need  to  keep  it  true." 

Stories  must  happen  somewhere,  and  the  capital  of  Zona 
Gale's  character  world  is  "Friendship  Village."  Here  occur 
the  loves  of  her  youthful  romances,  the  gossips  of  the  older 
worldly  wise.  Here  her  clubs  originate  and  accomplish  their 
tasks.  In  this  village  occur  the  struggles  for  social  and  indus- 
trial reform  in  which  Zona  Gale  is  so  much  interested,  and 
here,  too,  takes  place  all  that  great  conflict  for  civic  righteous- 
ness which  brings  "Friendship  Village"  slowly  nearer  the  goal 
of  perfection  as  she  understands  it.  "Friendship  Village"  is 
probably  located  nowhere,  but  still  Miss  Gale  has  been  so  suc- 
cessful in  writing  about  it  that  we  are  most  sure  it  is  our  town, 
and  some  one  has  suggested  that  another  good  name  for  this 
place  would  be  "Our  Home  Town." 

Two  of  Miss  Gale's  books  derive  their  titles  from  this  vll- 


118  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

lage  of  hers.  They  are  "Friendship  Village"  and  "Friendship 
Village  Love  Stories."  A  short  description  of  her  "Friend- 
ship Village"  will  follow  later.  Another  book  based  upon  the 
village  life  deals  with  the  lesson  of  Christmas  time.  It  shows 
how  the  older  people  who  have  come  to  feel  that  they  could 
not  afford  the  expense  of  Christmas  are  brought  to  realize  the 
real  significance  of  Christmas  giving. 

Another  series  of  stories  is  linked  into  book  form  through 
the  narrator,  Calliope  Marsh.  It  is  entitled  "Mothers  to  Men," 
and  is  an  account  of  life  at  "Friendship  Village." 

Miss  Gale  writes  beautiful  stories  of  how  to  make  the  bet- 
ter community;  but  what  is  more,  she  does  with  her  own  hands 
many  things  which  bring  about  the  realization  of  her  plans. 
Women's  club  of  her  own  city  and  of  many  other  cities  enjoy 
her  aid  in  their  plans  for  better  conditions.  Civic  federations 
of  statewide  influence  have  her  help  as  member  and  officer. 
Further,  her  own  county  fair  has  enjoyed  her  presence  and  her 
efforts  to  advance  civic  improvement  through  her  friendly  coun- 
sel to  those  who  pause  to  talk  with  her. 

Her  writing  is  here  illustrated  in  part  from  her  recent 
book,  "When  I  Was  a  Little  Girl."  Two  of  the  little  girls  of 
the  neighborhood  had  been  shut  up  in  their  rooms  one  fine 
summer  day  as  punishment  for  the  infraction  of  some  home 
regulation,  whereupon  a  discussion  among  the  free  playmates 
arose  as  to  the  reason  for  punishment.  As  the  discussion  waxed 
perplexing,  the  little  girls  happened  upon  Grandmother  Beers, 
who  took  up  the  discussion  and  enlightened  the  children.  What 
she  had  heard  of  their  conversation  caused  her  to  break  in 
with  the  statement,  "Wicked?  I  didn't  know  you  knew  such 
a  word."  The  following  discussion  then  takes  place: 


WHY? 

Prom  "WHEN  I  WAS  A  LITTLE  GIRL."     Copyright,  1913,  by  the 
Macmillan  Co. 

' 'It's  a  word  you  learn  at  Sunday  School,"  I  explained 
importantly. 

"Come  over  here  and  tell  me  about  it,"  she  invited, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  Eating  Apple  tree.  And  she  sat 
down  in  the  swing!  Of  course,  whatever  difference  of 
condition  exists  between  your  grandmother  and  yourself 
vanishes  when  she  sits  down  casually  in  your  swing. 

Well,  Grandmother  Beers  was  one  who  knew  how  to 
play  with  us,  and  I  was  always  half  expecting  her  to 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  119 

propose  a  new  game.  But  that  day,  as  she  sat  in  the 
swing,  her  eyes  were  not  twinkling  at  the  corners. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked  us.  "What  does 
wicked  mean?" 

"It's  what  you  aren't  to  be." 

I  took  the  brunt  of  the  reply,  because  I  was  the  rela- 
tive of  the  questioner. 

"Why  not?"  asked  grandmother. 

"Why  not?"  Oh,  we  all  knew  that.  We  responded 
instantly,  and  out  came  the  results  of  the  training  of  all 
the  families. 

"Because  your  Mother  and  your  Father  say  you 
can't,"  said  Betty  Rodman. 

"Because  it  makes  your  mother  feel  bad,"  said 
Calista. 

"Because  God  don't  want  us  to,"  said  I. 

"Delie  says,"  Betty  added,  "it's  because,  if  you  are, 
when  you  grow  up  people  won't  think  anything  of  you." 

Grandmother  Beers  held  her  sweet-peas  to  her  face. 

"If,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "you  wanted  to  do 
something  wicked  more  than  you  ever  wanted  to  do  any- 
thing in  the  world — as  much  as  you'd  want  a  drink  to- 
morrow if  you  hadn't  had  one  to-day — and  if  nobody 
ever  knew — would  any  of  those  reasons  keep  you  from 
doing  it?" 

We  consulted  one  another's  look,  and  shifted.  We 
knew  how  thirsty  that  would  be.  Already  we  were 
thirsty,  in  thinking  about  it. 

"If  I  were  in  your  place,"  grandmother  said,  "I'm 
not  sure  those  reasons  would  keep  me.  I  rather  think 
they  wouldn't — always." 

We    stared   at   her.      It   was   true   that   they   didn't 


120  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

always  keep  us.  Were  not  two  of  us  "in  our  rooms" 
even  now? 

Grandmother  leaned  forward — I  know  how  the 
shadows  of  the  apple  leaves  fell  on  her  black  lace  cap 
and  how  the  pink  sweet-peas  were  reflected  in  her  delicate 
face. 

"Suppose,"  she  said,  "that  instead  of  any  of  those 
reasons  somebody  gave  you  this  reason:  That  the  earth 
is  a  great  flower — a  flower  that  has  never  really  blos- 
somed yet.  And  that,  when  it  blossoms,  life  is  going  to 
be  more  beautiful  than  we  have  ever  dreamed,  or  than 
fairy  stories  have  ever  pretended.  And  suppose  our  do- 
ing one  way,  and  not  another,  makes  the  flower  come  a 
little  nearer  to  blossom.  But  our  doing  the  other  way 
puts  back  the  time  when  it  can  blossom.  Then  which 
would  you  want  to  do?" 

"Oh,  make  it  grow,  make  it  grow,"  we  all  cried;  and  I 
felt  a  secret  relief:  Grandmother  was  playing  a  game 
with  us,  after  all. 

"And  suppose  that  everything  made  a  difference  to 
it,"  she  went  on,  "every  little  thing — from  telling  a  lie, 
on  down  to  going  to  get  a  drink  for  somebody  and  drink- 
ing first  yourself  out  in  the  kitchen.  Suppose  that  every- 
thing made  a  difference,  from  hurting  somebody  on  pur- 
pose, down  to  making  up  the  bed  and  pulling  the  bed- 
spread tight  so  that  the  wrinkles  in  the  blanket  won't 
show." 

At  this  we  looked  at  one  another  in  some  consterna- 
tion. How  did  grandmother  know. 

"Until  after  awhile,"  she  said,  "you  should  find  out 
that  everything — loving,  going  to  school,  playing,  work- 
ing, bathing,  sleeping,  were  all  just  to  make  this  flower 
grow.  Wouldn't  it  be  fun  to  help?" 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  121 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes."  We  were  all  agreed  about  that.  It 
would  be  great  fun  to  help. 

"Well,  then  suppose,"  said  grandmother,  "that  as 
you  helped,  you  found  out  something  else :  that  in  each 
of  you,  say,  where  your  heart  is,  or  where  your  breath  is, 
there  was  a  flower  trying  to  blossom  through !  And  that 
only  as  you  help  the  earth  flower  to  blossom  could  your 
flower  blossom.  And  that  your  doing  one  way  would 
make  your  flower  droop  its  head  and  grow  dark  and 
shrivel  up.  But  your  doing  the  other  way  would  make 
it  grow,  and  turn  beautiful  colors — so  that,  bye  and  bye, 
every  one  of  your  bodies  would  be  just  a  sheath  for  this 
flower.  Which  way  then  would  you  rather  do?" 

"Oh,  make  it  grow,  make  it  grow/*  we  said  again. 

And  Mary  Elizabeth  added  longingly:  "Wouldn't  it 
be  fun  if  it  was  true?" 

"It  is  true,"  said  Grandmother  Beers. 

She  sat  there,  softly  smiling  over  her  pink  sweet-peas. 
We  looked  at  her  silently.  Then  I  remembered  that  her 
face  had  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  somehow  light  within. 
May  be  it  was  her  flower  showing  through ! 

"Grandmother!"  I  cried,  "is  it  true— is  it  true?" 

"It  is  true,"  she  repeated.  "And  whether  the  earth 
flower  and  other  people's  flowers  and  your  flower  are  to 
bloom  or  not  is  what  living  is  about.  And  everything 
makes  a  difference.  Isn't  that  a  good  reason  for  not  being 
wicked?" 

We  all  looked  up  in  her  face,  something  in  us  leaping 
and  answering  to  what  she  said.  And  I  know  that  we 
understood. 

"Oh,"  Mary  Elizabeth  whispered  presently  to  Betty, 
"hurry  home  and  tell  Margaret  Amelia.  It'll  make  it  so 
much  easier  when  she  comes  out  to  her  supper." 


122  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

That  night,  on  the  porch,  alone  with  Mother  and 
Father,  I  inquired  into  something  that  still  was  not  clear. 

"But  how  can  you  tell  which  things  are  wicked?  And 
which  ones  are  wrong  and  which  things  are  right?" 

Father  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  my  hand.  He 
was  looking  at  me  with  a  look  that  I  knew — and  his 
smile  for  me  is  like  no  other  smile  that  I  have  ever 
known. 

"Something  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  "always." 

"Always?"  I  doubted. 

"Always,"  he  said.  "There  will  be  other  voices.  But 
if  you  listen,  something  will  tell  you  always.  And  it  is 
all  you  need." 

I  looked  at  Mother.  And  by  her  nod  and  her  quiet 
look  I  perceived  that  all  this  had  been  known  about  for 
a  long  time. 

"That  is  why  Grandma  Bard  is  coming  to  live  with 
us,"  she  said,  "not  just  because  we  wanted  her,  but 
because — that  said  so." 

In  us  all  a  flower — and  something  saying  something! 
And  the  earth  flower  trying  to  blossom  .  .  .1  looked 
down  the  street :  at  Mr.  Branchett  walking  in  his  garden, 
at  the  light  shining  from  windows,  at  the  folk  sauntering 
on  the  sidewalk,  and  toward  town  where  the  band  was 
playing.  We  all  knew  about  this  together  then.  This 
was  why  everything  was!  And. there  were  years  and 
years  to  make  it  come  through. 

What  if  I,  alone  among  them  all,  had  never  found  out. 

THE  HOLY  PLACE 

At  silver  of  gray  lines;  at  look  of  lace 

About  a  woman's  throat;  at  little  feet, 

Curled  close  in  hand  that  clings;  at  stir  of  sweet 

Old  gardens;  at  the  flow  and  dip  and  grace 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  123 

Of  sweeping  fabric;  at  the  phantom  race  of  snadow  ripples  in 

the  tides  of  wheat, 

Where  great,  still  spirits  murmur  as  they  meet — 
Souls  see  Their  God  as  in  a  holy  place. 
What  of  the  wrinkled  face,  the  poor,  coarse  hands, 
Dead  leaves  and  ruined  walls  in  fields  that  stand, 
Rattling  sharp  husks?     Of  little  feet  that  stray 
From  clinging  hands,  and  never  find  the  way? 
He  knows  no  holy  place  for  whom  the  clod 
Stands  not  an  altar  to  the  living  God. 

FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Published  by  Permission  of  The  Macmillan  Co.,  New  York. 

We  are  one  long  street,  rambling  from  sun  to  sun, 
inheriting  traits  of  the  parent  country  road  which  we 
unite.  And  we  are  cross  streets,  members  of  the  same 
family,  properly  imitative,  proving  our  ancestorship  in  a 
primeval  genius  for  trees,  or  bursting  out  in  inexplicable 
weaknesses  of  Court-House,  Engine-House,  Town  Hall, 
and  Telephone  Office.  Ultimately  our  stock  dwindled  out 
in  a  slaughter-house  and  a  few  detached  houses  of  milk 
men.  The  cemetery  is  delicately  put  behind  them,  under 
a  hill.  There  is  nothing  mediaeval  in  all  this,  one  would 
say.  But  then  see  how  we  wear  our  rue : 

When  one  of  us  telephones,  she  will  scrupulously  ask 
for  the  number,  for  it  says  so  at  the  top  of  every  page. 
"Give  me  1-1,"  she  will  put  it,  with  an  impersonality  as 
fine  as  if  she  were  calling  for  four  figures.  And  central 
will  answer: 

"Well,  I  just  saw  Mis*  Holcomb  go  'crost  the  street. 
1*11  call  you,  if  you  want,  when  she  comes  back.'* 

Or,  "I  don't  think  you  better  ring  the  Helman's  just 
now.  They  were  awake  'most  all  night  with  one  o'  Mis' 
Helman's  attacks." 


124  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Or,  "Doctor  June's  invited  to  Mis*  Syke's  for  tea. 
Shall  I  give  him  to  you  there?" 

The  telephone  is  modern  enough.  But  in  our  use  of  it, 
is  there  not  a  flavor  as  of  an  Elder  Time,  to  be  caught  by 
Them  of  Many  Years  from  Now?  And  already  we  may 
catch  this  flavor,  as  our  Britain  great-great-lady  grand- 
mothers, and  more,  may  have  been  conscious  of  the  old 
fashion  of  sitting  in  bowers.  If  only  they  were  conscious 
like  that !  To  be  sure  of  it  would  be  to  touch  their  hands 
in  the  margin  of  the  ballad  books. 

Or  we  telephone  to  the  Livery  Barn  and  Boarding 
Stable  for  the  little  blacks,  celebrated  for  their  self- 
control  in  encounters  with  the  Proudfits'  motor  car.  The 
stable-boy  answers  that  the  little  blacks  are  at  "the 
funeral. ' '  And  after  he  has  gone  off  to  ask  his  employer, 
who  in  his  unofficial  moments  is  our  neighbor,  our  church 
choir  bass,  our  landlord  even,  comes  and  tells  us  that, 
after  all,  we  may  have  the  little  blacks,  and  he  himself 
brings  them  round  at  once — the  same  little  blacks  that 
we  meant  all  along.  And  when,  quite  naturally,  we 
wonder  at  the  boy's  version,  we  learn:  "Oh,  why,  the 
blacks  was  standin'  just  acrost  the  street,  waitin'  at  the 
church  door,  hitched  to  the  hearse.  I  took  'em  out  an' 
put  in  the  bays.  I  says  to  myself:  'The  corpse  won't 
care.'  "  Some  way  the  Proudfits'  car  and  the  stable 
telephone  must  themselves  have  slipped  from  modernity 
to  old  fashioned  before  that  incident  shall  quite  come 
into  its  own. 

So  it  is  with  certain  of  our  domestic  ways.  For  ex- 
ample, Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes — in  Friendship  Village 
every  woman  assumes  for  given  name  the  employment  of 
her  husband — has  some  fine  modern  china  and  much  solid 
silver  in  extremely  good  taste,  so  much,  indeed,  that  she 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  125 

is  wont  to  confess  to  having  cleaned  forty,  or  sixty,  or 
seventy-five  pieces — "seventy-five  pieces  of  solid  silver 
have  I  cleaned  this  morning.  You  can  say  what  you  want 
to,  nice  things  are  a  rill  care."  Yet,  surely  this  is  the 
proper  conjunction,  Mis'  Sykes  is  currently  reported  to 
rise  in  the  night  preceding  the  day  of  her  house  cleaning, 
and  to  take  her  carpets  out  in  the  back  yard,  and  there 
softly  to  sweep  and  sweep  them  so  that,  at  their  official 
cleaning  next  day,  the  neighbors  may  witness  how  little 
dirt  is  whipped  out  on  the  line.  Ought  she  not  to  have 
old-fashioned  silver  and  egg-shell  china  and  drop-leaf 
mahogany  to  fit  the  practice  instead  of  dazzling  and 
wild-rose  patterns  in  ' '  solid  and  art  curtains,  and  mission 
chairs  and  a  white-enameled  refrigerator,  and  a  gas 
range  ? ' ' 

We  have  the  latest  funeral  equipment — black  broad- 
cloth-covered supports,  a  coffin  carriage  for  up-and-down 
the  aisles,  natural  palms  to  order,  and  the  pulleys  to  "Let 
them  down  slow ' ' ;  and  yet  our  individual  funeral  capacity 
has  been  such  that  we  can  tell  what  every  woman  who 
has  died  in  Friendship  for  years  has  "done  without ": 
Mis'  Grocer  Stew,  her  of  all  folks,  has  done  without  new- 
style  flat-irons;  Mis'  Worth  had  used  the  bread  pan  to 
wash  dishes  in;  Mis*  Jeweler  Sprague — the  first  Mis' 
Sprague — had  had  only  six  bread  and  butter  knives,  her, 
that  could  get  wholesale,  too  .  .  .  and  we  have  little 
maid-servants  who  answer  our  bells  in  caps  and  trays,  so 
to  say ;  but  this  savour  of  jestership  is  authentic,  for  any 
one  of  them  is  likely  to  do  as  of  late  did  Mis'  Holcomb — 
that  was  Mame  Bliss's  maid — answer  at  dinner-with- 
guests,  that  there  were  no  more  mashed  potatoes,  "or 
else,  there  won't  be  any  left  to  warm  up  for  your  break- 
fast" .  .  .  And  though  we  have  our  daily  newspaper, 


126  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

receiving  Associated  Press  service,  yet,  as  Mis'  Amandy 
Toplady  observed,  it  is  "only  very  lately  that  they  have 
mentioned  in  the  Daily  the  birth  of  a  child,  or  any  thing 
that  had  anything  of  a  tang  to  it." 

We  put  new  wine  in  old  bottles,  but  also  we  use  new 
bottles  to  hold  our  old  wine.  For,  consider  the  name  of 
our  main  street :  is  this  Main  or  Clark  or  Cook  or  Grand 
Street,  according  to  the  register  of  the  main  streets  of 
town?  Instead,  for  its  half-mile  of  village  life,  the  Plank 
Road,  macadamized  and  arc-lighted,  is  called  Daphne 
Street.  Daphne  Street !  I  love  to  wonder  why.  Did  our 
dear  Doctor  June's  father  name  it  when  he  set  the  five 
hundred  elms  and  oaks  which  glorify  us  ?  Or  did  Daphne 
herself  take  this  way  on  the  day  of  her  flight,  so  that 
when  they  came  to  draught  the  town,  they  recognized 
that  it  was  Daphne  Street,  and  so  were  spared  the  trouble 
of  naming  it?  Or  did  the  Future  anonymously  toss  us 
back  the  suggestion,  thinking  of  some  day  of  her  own 
when  she  might  remember  us  and  say,  "Daphne  Street!" 
Already  some  of  us  smile  with  a  secret  nod  at  something 
when  we  direct  a  stranger,  "You  will  find  the  Telegraph 
and  Cable  Office  two  blocks  down,  on  Daphne  Street." 
"The  Commercial  Travelers'  House,  the  Abigail  Arnold 
Home  Bakery,  the  Post  Office  and  Armory  are  in  the  same 
block  on  Daphne  Street."  Or,  "The  Electric  Light  Office 
is  at  the  corner  of  Dunn  and  Daphne."  It  is  not  wonder- 
ful that  Daphne  herself,  at  seeing  these  things,  did  not 
stay,  but  lifted  her  laurels  somewhat  nearer  Tempe — 
although  there  are  those  of  us  who  like  to  fancy  that  she  is 
here  all  the  time  in  our  Daphne-Street  magic :  the  fire  bell, 
the  tulip  beds,  and  the  twilight  bonfires.  For  how  else, 
in  all  reason,  has  the  name  persisted? 

Of  late  a  new  doctor  has  appeared — one  may  say,  has 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  127 

abounded:  a  surgeon  who,  such  is  his  zeal,  will  almost 
perform  an  operation  over  the  telephone  and,  we  have 
come  somewhat  cynically  to  believe,  would  prefer  doing 
so  to  not  operating  at  all. 

***** 

Thus  the  New  shoulders  the  Old,  and  our  transition  is 
still  swift  enough  to  be  a  spectacle,  as  was  its  earlier 
phase  which  gave  our  Middle  West  to  cabins  and  plough 
horses,  with  a  tendency  away  from  wigwams  and  bob- 
whites.  And  in  this  local  warfare  between  Old  and  New 
a  chief  figure  is  Calliope  Marsh.  She  is  a  little  rosy, 
wrinkled  creature  officially — though  no  other  than  offi- 
cially-— pertaining  to  sixty  years;  mender  of  lace,  seller 
of  extracts,  and  music  teacher,  but  of  the  three  she  thinks 
of  the  last  as  her  true  vocation. 

***** 

With  us  all  the  friendship  idea  prevails:  we  accept 
what  Progress  sends,  but  we  regard  it  in  our  own  fashion. 
Our  improvements,  like  our  entertainments,  our  funerals, 
our  holidays,  and  our  very  loves,  are  but  Friendship- 
Village  exponents  of  the  modern  spirit.  Perhaps,  in  a 
tenderer  significance  than  she  meant,  Calliope  character- 
ized us  when  she  said: 

"This  town  is  more  like  a  back  door  than  a  front — or, 
givin'  it  full  credit,  anyhow — it's  no  more'n  a  side  door, 
with  no  vines." 


EBEN  EUGENE  REXFORD. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  has  lived  in  Wisconsin  since  the 
seventh  year  of  his  life.  He  was  horn  at  Johnsburgh,  New 
York,  on  September  16,  1848.  With  his  parents  he  removed  to 
Wisconsin,  where  he  came  to  love  the  products  of  the  soil  and 
the  processes  by  which  they  might  be  made  more  and  more 
beautiful.  Not  merely  plant  growth  has  been  of  interest  to 
him;  the  development  of  Wisconsin  institutions  also,  especially 
its  schools,  has  been  of  the  most  vital  concern  to  him.  Few 
men  have  been  more  deeply  interested  in  the  schools  of  any 
community  than  has  Mr.  Rexford  in  the  schools  of  his  village, 
and  few  have  more  effectively  encouraged  the  teaching  of 
agricultural  facts  in  the  schools  than  he. 

Mr.  Rex  ford's  life  has  been  spent  quite  largely  at  his  coun- 
try home  near  Shiocton,  where  he  has  found  much  of  the  ma- 
terial for  the  line  of  writing  in  which  he  has  been  especially 
interested.  The  country  home  has  furnished  him  with  oppor- 
tunities for  pleasurable  development  of  which  few  have  even 
dreamed.  His  career  is  worth  studying,  if  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  disprove  the  thought  that  rural  life  is  a  life  of  toil  and 
hardship  devoid  of  the  privilege  of  acquiring  that  finer  sense 
for  the  beautiful.  Mr.  Rexford's  life  has  been  rich  in  the  com- 
panionship of  people  and  of  animals  and  plants.  This  last  has 
given  that  training  which  makes  him  an  authority  along  the 
line  of  floriculture. 

Mr.  Rexford  received  his  training  beyond  the  rural  schools 
at  Lawrence  College,  Appleton,  where  he  pursued  the  college 
course  until  his  senior  year.  When  he  had  gone  thus  far  in 
his  course,  the  care  of  his  home  demanded  his  attention;  and, 
characteristic  of  the  man,  he  sacrificed  his  own  personal  inter- 
ests for  the  greater  good  he  might  do.  The  city  of  Appleton 
and  its  institutions,  especially  its  college  and  its  churches,  still 
possess  strong  bonds  of  interest  for  him.  The  college,  in  turn, 
is  Justly  proud  of  his  attainments  and  conferred  upon  him  the 
degree  of  Doctor  of  Literature  in  1908. 

After  his  school  career,  Mr.  Rexford  took  up  his  work  at 
his  country  home  near  Shiocton,  where  he  has  been  actively 
associated  with  all  phases  of  the  development  of  community 
life.  Good  roads  found  a  strong  advocate  in  him;  the  introduc- 
tion and  development  of  farm  machinery  and  farm  improve- 
ments have  found  him  a  leader.  For  school  programs  and  for 


EBEN  E.   REXFORD 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  131 

church  exercises  he  has  contributed  much  in  providing  music, 
or  in  directing  the  musical  part  of  the  program. 

Early  in  life  Mr.  Rexford  conceived  the  notion  of  sharing 
his  best  thoughts  with  his  fellows  through  expressing  them  for 
publication,  and  it  is  said  that  he  has  been  a  contributor  to  the 
press  since  the  age  of  fourteen.  He  has  written  extensively  for 
a  large  number  of  magazines.  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal  and 
Outing  have  published  more  of  his  articles,  perhaps,  than  any 
other  magazines.  These  magazine  contributions  comprise 
poems  and  articles  upon  gardening,  flower  culture,  and  the 
making  of  the  country  home.  While  the  articles  show  exten- 
sive scientific  knowledge,  they  are  so  written  as  to  be  easily 
comprehended  by  the  ordinary  reader. 

The  various  articles  have  been  collected  into  book  form  and 
the  following  discussions  upon  the  garden  and  its  plants  were 
listed  in  the  1912  catalogs:  Flowers,  How  to  Grow  Them; 
Four  Seasons  in  the  Garden;  Home  Floriculture;  Home  Gar- 
den; Indoor  Gardening.  These  discussions  are  made  up  largely 
of  Mr.  Rexford's  own  experience  in  doing  the  things  he  writes 
about.  From  among  the  flowers  in  his  living  room  or  the 
plants  in  his  garden  you  can  easily  imagine  him  in  his  quiet, 
neighborly  way  telling  you  the  things  that  will  aid  you  in  suc- 
cessfully raising  flowers  or  vegetables.  We  are  closely  drawn 
to  him,  for  there  is  no  show  about  what  he  does,  but  that 
simple  kindliness  of  one  who  desires  to  help. 

While  extracts  from  books  of  the  type  above  listed  would 
not  generally  form  good  selections  for  reading,  yet  so  different 
is  the  style  of  composition  of  Mr.  Rexford  that  we  feel  that  a 
few  illustrations  here  will  be  of  great  interest  as  showing  the 
qualities  above  mentioned.  The  first  two  selections  are  taken 
from  his  "Home  Floriculture,"  a  book  published  by  the  Orange 
Judd  Company,  and  will  illustrate  Mr.  Rexford's  intense  inter- 
est in  his  plants  as  well  as  his  simple  style  in  telling  us  the 
things  of  help  to  us. 


WATERING  PLANTS 

Printed  by  permission  of  Orange,  Judd  Co. 

Some  persons  water  their  plants  every  day,  without 
regard  to  the  season,  and  give  about  the  same  quantity 
one  day  that  they  do  another.  The  natural  result  is  that 
in  winter  their  plants  are  weak  and  spindling,  with  yellow 
leaves,  and  few,  if  any,  flowers.  The  owner  will  tell  you 
that  she  "don't  see  what  ails  her  plants. "  She  is  sure 
she  gives  them  all  the  water  they  need,  and  she  "never 


132  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

forgets  to  do  this."  If  she  were  to  forget  to  do  this 
occasionally  it  would  be  a  great  deal  better  for  the  plants. 
In  summer  the  evaporation  of  moisture  from  the  soil  is 
rapid,  because  of  warmth  and  wind,  but  in  winter  this 
goes  on  slowly,  and  the  amount  of  water  given  should  be 
regulated  by  the  ability  of  the  soil  to  dispose  of  it.  Where 
too  much  is  given,  as  has  been  said  in  the  chapter  on 
planting,  the  soil  is  reduced  to  a  condition  of  muddiness, 
unless  good  drainage  has  been  provided,  and  those  who 
give  too  much  water  generally  neglect  this  item. 

Another  woman  will  give  water  in  little  driblets, 
"whenever  she  happens  to  think  of  it."  The  result  is 
that  her  plants  are  chronic  sufferers  from  the  lack  of 
moisture  at  the  roots.  The  wonder  is  that  they  contrive 
to  exist.  Turn  them  out  of  their  pots  and  you  will  gener- 
ally find  that  the  upper  portion  of  the  soil  is  moist,  and 
in  this  what  few  foots  there  are  have  spread  themselves, 
while  below  it,  the  soil  is  almost  as  dry  as  dust,  and  no 
root  could  live  there.  Plants  grown  under  these  condi- 
tions are  almost  always  dwarf  and  sickly  specimens,  with 
but  few  leaves  and  most  of  these  yellow  ones.  You  will 
find  that  plants  grown  under  either  condition  are  much 
more  subject  to  attacks  of  insects  than  healthy  plants  are. 

There  is  only  one  rule  to  be  governed  in  watering 
plants  that  I  have  a  knowledge  of  and  that  is  this: 
Never  apply  water  to  any  plant  until  the  surface  of  the 
soil  looks  dry.  When  you  do  give  water,  give  enough  of 
it  to  thoroughly  saturate  the  soil.  If  some  runs  through 
at  the  bottom  of  the  pot,  you  can  be  sure  that  the  whole 
ball  of  earth  is  moist. 

I  follow  this  rule  with  good  results.  Of  course,  like 
all  other  rules,  it  has  exceptions.  For  instance,  a  calla, 
being  a  sort  of  aquatic  plant,  requires  very  much  more 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  133 

water  than  a  geranium.  A  cactus,  being  a  native  of  hot, 
dry  climates,  requires  but  very  little.  The  florist  who  is 
interested  in  his  plants  will  study  their  habits,  in  order  to 
understand  the  requirements  of  each,  and  will  soon  be 
able  to  treat  them  intelligently.  He  will  soon  be  able  to 
tell  at  a  glance  when  a  plant  requires  more  water.  He 
will  know  what  kinds  to  give  a  good  deal  to,  and  what 
kinds  to  water  sparingly.  Until  he  has  acquired  this 
ability  it  is  well  for  him  to  adhere  to  the  rule  given 
above,  for  if  he  follows  it,  he  cannot  go  very  far  wrong  in 
either  direction.  Let  the  water  used  be  of  about  the 
same  temperature  as  that  of  the  room  in  which  the  plants 
are.  I  am  often  asked  which  is  best,  hard  or  soft  water. 
I  have  tried  both  and  see  little  difference. 

Many  persons  fail  to  attain  success  with  plants  in 
baskets  and  window  boxes.  Ninety-nine  times  out  of  a 
hundred,  the  failure  is  due  to  lack  of  water.  A  basket  is 
exposed  to  dry  air  on  all  sides,  and  is  suspended  near  the 
ceiling,  as  a  general  thing,  where  the  air  is  much  warmer 
than  below;  consequently  the  evaporation  takes  place 
more  rapidly  than  from  the  pot  on  the  window  sill.  Be- 
cause it  is  somewhat  difficult  to  get  at,  water  is  not  given 
as  often  as  required,  and  then  generally  in  smaller  quanti- 
ties than  is  needed.  The  first  thing  you  know,  your  plants 
are  turning  yellow,  and  dropping  their  leaves,  and  soon 
they  are  in  such  a  condition  that  you  throw  them  away 
in  disgust,  and  conclude  that  you  haven't  "the  knack  of 
growing  good  basket  plants.  All  the  trouble  comes  from 
an  insufficient  water  supply. 

There  are  two  methods  by  which  you  may  make  it 
easier  to  attend  to  the  needs  of  the  plants.  One  is,  to 
have  the  baskets  suspended  by  long  cords  running  over 
pulleys,  by  which  you  can  lower  them  into  a  tub  of  water, 


134  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

where  they  can  be  left  until  they  are  thoroughly  soaked 
through.  The  other  is  this :  Take  a  tin  can  and  punch  a 
hole  through  the  bottom  of  it.  Let  this  hole  be  large 
enough  to  allow  the  water  to  escape,  drop  by  drop.  Set 
this  on  top  of  your  basket  and  arrange  the  foliage  to 
cover  it. 

If  the  hole  is  not  so  large  as  it  ought  to  be,  the  soil 
will  not  be  kept  moist  all  through.  In  this  case,  make  it 
larger.  A  little  observation  will  enable  you  to  regulate 
matters  in  such  a  manner  as  to  secure  just  the  flow  of 
water  needed.  By  the  " tin-can  method"  of  watering 
basket  plants,  the  trouble  of  watering  in  the  ordinary 
way  will  be  done  away  with,  and  the  results  will  be  ex- 
tremely satisfactory. 

Plants  can  be  grown  nearly  as  well  in  the  window  box 
as  in  the  open  ground  if  enough  water  is  given  to  keep 
the  soil  moist,  all  through,  at  all  times.  The  ' '  little-and- 
often ' '  plan,  spoken  of  in  this  chapter,  will  lead  to  dismal 
failure  in  the  care  of  window  boxes.  Apply  at  least  a 
pailful  of  water  every  day,  in  warm  weather.  If  this  is 
done,  there  need  be  no  failure.  If  those  who  have  failed 
heretofore  will  bear  this  in  mind,  and  follow  the  advice 
given,  they  may  have  window  boxes  that  will  make  their 
windows  beautiful  during  the  entire  summer,  with  very 
little  trouble. 

TEA  ROSES  FOR  BEDS 

No  part  of  my  garden  affords  me  more  pleasure  than 
my  bed  of  Tea  Roses.  I  cut  dozens  of  flowers  from  it 
nearly  every  day  from  June  to  the  coming  of  cold 
weather,  for  buttonhole  and  corsage  bouquets,  and  for  use 
on  the  table,  and  in  the  parlor.  One  fine  rose  and  a  bit  of 
foliage  is  a  bouquet  in  itself.  If  I  could  have  but  one  bed 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  135 

of  flowers,  it  should  be  a  bed  of  Tea  Roses — and  yet,  I 
should  want  a  bed  of  Pansies  to  supplement  the  Roses; 
therefore,  a  bed  of  each  would  be  a  necessity. 

If  you  want  to  give  a  friend  a  buttonhole  nosegay 
that  shall  be  ' '  just  as  pretty  as  it  can  be, ' '  you  must  have 
a  bed  of  these  Roses  to  draw  from.  A  half-blown  flower 
of  Meteor,  with  its  velvety,  crimson  petals,  and  a  bud  of 
Perle  des  Jardins,  just  showing  its  golden  heart,  with  a 
leaf  or  two  of  green  to  set  off  the  flowers — what  a  lovely 
harmony  of  rich  color  Or,  if  your  taste  inclines  you 
to  more  delicate  colors,  take  a  bud  of  Luciole,  and  a 
Catherine  Mermet  when  its  petals  are  just  falling  apart. 
Nothing  can.  be  lovelier,  you  think,  till  you  have  put  half 
open  Perle  des  Jardins  with  a  dark  purple  or  azure-blue 
Pansy.  When  you  have  done  that,  you  are  charmed 
with  the  manner  in  which  the  two  colors  harmonize  and 
intensify  each  other,  and  you  are  sure  there  was  never 
anything  finer  for  a  flower-lover  to  feast  his  eyes  on.  Put 
a  tawny  Safrano  or  Sunset  bud  with  a  purple  Pansy  and 
see  what  a  royal  combination  of  colors  you  have  in  the 
simple  arrangement.  Be  sure  to  have  a  bed  of  Tea  Roses, 
and  make  combinations  to  suit  yourself. 

In  order  to  make  a  success  of  your  bed  of  Tea  Roses — 
though  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  ever-bloomers,  for  probably 
your  selection  will  include  other  varieties  than  the  Tea — 
you  must  have  a  rich  soil  for  them  to  grow  in.  When  a 
branch  has  borne  flowers,  it  must  be  cut  back  to  some 
strong  bud.  This  bud  will,  if  your  soil  is  rich  enough  to 
encourage  vigorous  growth,  soon  become  a  branch,  and 
produce  flowers.  It  is  by  constant  cutting  back  that  you 
secure  new  growth,  if  the  soil  is  in  a  condition  to  help  it 
along,  and  only  by  securing  this  steady  production  and 
development  of  new  branches  can  you  expect  many 


136  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

flowers.  All  depends  on  that.  If  proper  treatment  is 
given,  you  need  not  be  without  flowers,  unless  you  cut 
them  all,  from  June  to  October. 

If  I  were  to  name  all  the  desirable  varieties,  I  might 
fill  several  pages  with  the  list.  Look  over  the  catalogs 
of  the  florists  and  you  will  see  that  the  variety  is  almost 
endless.  If  you  do  not  care  to  invest  money  enough  to 
secure  the  newer  varieties,  tell  the  dealer  to  whom  you 
give  your  patronage  what  you  want  the  plants  for,  and 
he  will  make  a  selection  which  will  include  some  of  the 
best  kinds,  and  which  will  be  sure  to  give  you  as  good 
satisfaction  as  you  would  get  from  a  selection  of  your 
own.  Better,  in  most  instances,  for  you  make  your  selec- 
tion from  the  description  in  the  catalog,  while  he  would 
select  from  his  knowledge  of  the  merits  of  the  flower. 

By  all  means  have  a  bed  of  these  most  sweet  and 
lovely  Roses.  If  the  season  happens  to  be  a  hot  and  dry 
one,  mulch  your  rose  bed  with  grass  clippings  from  the 
lawn.  Spread  them  evenly  about  the  plants,  to  a  depth 
of  two  or  three  inches,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  cover  the 
entire  bed.  By  so  doing,  you  prevent  rapid  evaporation 
and  the  roots  of  the  plant  are  kept  much  cooler  than 
when  strong  sunshine  is  allowed  to  beat  down  upon  the 
surface  of  the  bed.  When  the  mulch  begins  to  decay, 
remove  it,  and  apply  fresh  clippings.  About  the  middle 
of  the  season  give  the  soil  a  liberal  dressing  of  fine  bone 
meal,  working  it  well  about  the  roots  of  the  plants;  or, 
if  you  can  get  it,  use  old  cow  manure.  Whatever  you 
apply,  be  sure  it  gets  where  the  roots  can  make  use  of  it. 

While  the  above  Illustrations  show  Mr.  Rexford's  interests 
in  the  affairs  of  home  life  and  demonstrate  his  simple,  direct 
way  of  saying  what  he  wishes  us  to  know,  yet  they  do  not  man- 
ifest that  finer  literary  sense  of  which  he  is  possessed.  They 
are  scientific  thought,  clearly  and  directly  expressed,  but  he  >ias 
that  sentiment  of  the  heart  and  that  keen  appreciation  of  the 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  137 

relation  of  sound  to  sense  which  marks  him  as  the  poet  and 
song  writer. 

His  first  book  publication  of  a  poetic  nature  is  a  long  nar- 
rative poem  entitled  "Brother  and  Lover."  It  is  a  story  of  Civil 
War  times  and  is  rich  in  the  sentiment  of  friendship  which,  to 
his  mind,  endures  not  merely  through  this  life,  but  abides 
throughout  all  time.  The  plot  of  this  story  is  very  simple,  in- 
volving but  three 'characters,  a  young  woman,  her  brother,  and 
her  lover. 

Mr.  Rexford's  last  collection  of  poems  appeared  in  1911 
under  the  title  "Pansies  and  Rosemary."  He  explained  this 
title  in  the  following  quotation:  "Pansies — for  thoughts,  and 
Rosemary — that's  for  remembrance."  Many  of  the  thoughts 
in  these  poems  seem  to  be  such  as  come  to  us  at  eventide,  for 
they  reflect  many  sentiments  concerning  death.  It  would  seem 
that  Mr.  Rexford  has  cherished  those  occasions  which  bring 
a  community  in  humility  and  close  sympathy,  to  point  Ihe  sig- 
nificance of  the  great  lesson  of  hope,  in  the  most  beautiful 
language  that  he  commands. 

In  a  few  of  these  poems,  dialect  has  been  chosen  as  the 
form  of  expression.  One  of  this  type  has  been  selected  for  this 
reading.  It  illustrates  the  fact  that  in  these  simple  acts  of 
community  effort  to  do  the  constructive,  there  always  comes 
more  joy  than  can  come  from  the  polished  product  of  practised 
art. 

Naturally  we  expect  one  who  loved  the  beauty  of  the  land- 
scape and  the  color  of  petal  and  the  fragrance  of  flower  to  be 
more  or  less  of  a  Nature  poet.  To  him  Nature  is  the  great 
teacher  of  God's  handiwork,  and  imparts  to  us  solace  and  Joy. 
Mr.  Rexford  has  also  chosen  to  disregard  the  life  of  the  city 
for  the  life  of  the  country  village,  where  every  individual  to  the 
youngest  school  child  may  know  him  and  reverence  him  for  his 
kindly  helpfulness.  He  loves  the  humble  worker  in  the  com- 
mon walks  of  life.  "The  Two  Singers"  given  later  will  illustrate 
his  theory  of  usefulness. 

He  does  not  conceal  the  presence  of  evil,  nor  does  he  con- 
done it,  but  he  does  show  the  great  strength  which  may  be  at- 
tained through  resistance  of  it.  The  unfruitful  tree  illustrates 
this  point. 

Mr.  Rexford  has  always  been  a  great  lover  of  music.  He 
has  led  the  village  choir  and  he  has  played  the  organ  at  the 
church  service  for  many  years.  He  has  written  not  merely  the 
words  that  he  sings,  but  he  has  also  set  many  of  his  little  lyrics 
to  music.  When  the  village  school  has  needed  a  song  for  a  spe- 
cial program,  when  the  church  service  has  been  in  special  need, 
or  when  the  Memorial  Day  program  could  be  rendered  more 
sacredly  helpful  by  his  music,  Mr.  Rexford  has  always  been 
ready  to  assist.  He  has  kindly  consented  to  our  publishing  his 
famous  song,  "Silver  Threads  Among  the  Gold,"  and  its  sequel, 
"When  Silver  Threads  are  Gold  Again." 


138  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

THE  OLD   \  1 1  I    \  < ,  I     CHOIR 

All  of  these  poems  are  reprinted  with  consent  of  the  author  and 
the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Publishing:  Co. 

I  have  be'n  in  city  churches  where  the  way-up  singers  sing, 
Till  their  thousand'-dollar  voices  make  the  very  rafters  ring. 
Seems  as  if  the  sound  kep'  clim'in'  till  it  got  lost  in  the  spire, 
But  I  all  the  time  was  wishin'  'twas  our  dear  ol'  village  choir. 


Somehow,  highfallutin'  singin'  never  seemed  to  touch  the  spot 
Like  the  ol'  religious  singin'  o'  the  times  I  hain't  forgot; 
Jest  the  ol'  hymns  over'n  over — nothin'  city  folks  desire, 
But  some  heart  was  in  the  singin'  of  that  same  ol'  village  choir. 

Nothin'  airy  'bout  the  singers — land;  they  never  tho't  o'  style, 
But  they  made  you  think  o'  Heaven  an*  of  good  things  all  the 

while,  "   . 

Made  you  feel  as  ef  the  angels  couldn't  help  a  comin'  nigher 
Jest  to  lis'en  to  the  music  made  by  that  ol'  village  choir. 

When  they  sungr  ol'  Coronation,  w'y — it  somehow  seemed  to 

grip 

An'  to  take  your  heart  up  with  it  on  a  sort  o'  'scursion  trip 
To  the  place  where  God  stays!    Of'en  heart  an'  soul  seemed  all 

afire 
With  the  glory  that  they  sung  of  in  the  dear  ol'  village  choir. 

Then  they'd  have  us  all  a-cryin'  when  they  sung,  at  funril-time, 
Soft,  an*  low,  an'  sweet,  an*  sollum  hymns  that  told  about  the 

clime 
Where  there's  never  death  or  partin,'  an'  the  mourners  never'd 

tire 
Lis'nen'  to  the  words  o'  comfort  sung  by  the  ol'  village  choir. 

You  c'n  have  your  city  singin'  if  you  think  it  fills  the  bill; — 
Give  me  the  ol'-fashioned  music  of  the  ol'  church  on  the  hill. 
Music  with  no  style  about  it — nothin'  fine  folks  would  admire, 
But  it  makes  me  homesick,  thinkin'  o'  the  dear  ol'  village  choir. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  139 

THE  TWO  SINGERS 

I  know  two  of  this  earth's  singers;   one  longed  to  climb  and 

stand 

Upon  the  heights  o'er  looking  the  peaceful  lower  land, 
"There  where  great  souls  have  gathered,  the  few  great  souls  of 

earth, 
I'll  sing  my  songs,"  he  told  us,  "and  they  will  own  their  worth. 

"But  if  I  sang  them  only  to  those  who  love  the  plain 
They  would  not  understand  them,  and  I  would  sing  in  vain. 
Oh,  better  far  to  sing  them  to  earth's  great  souls,  though  few, 
Than  to  sing  them  to  the  many  who  ne'er  one  great  thought 
knew." 

So  he  climbed  the  heights,  and  on  them  sang,  and  those  who 

heard — 
Earth's  few  great  souls,  ah,  never  they  gave  one  longed-for 

word, 
For  the  mighty  thoughts  within  them  filled  each  one's  soul  and 

brain, 
And  few  among  them  listened  to  the  music  of  his  strain. 

But  the  other  singer  sang  to  the  toilers  in  the  vale, 
The  patient,  plodding  many,  who  strive,  and  win,  and  fail. 
His  songs  of  faith  and  gladness,  of  hope  and  trust  and  cheer, 
Were  sweet  with  strength  and  comfort,  and  men  were  glad  to 
hear. 

Little  this  valley  singer  knew  of  the  good  he  wrought; 

He   dreamed   not   of  the    courage    that   from   his   songs   was 

caught — 
Of  the  hearts  that  were  made  lighter,  the  hands  that  stronger 

grew, 
As  they  listened  to  his  singing  to  the  many,  not  to  few. 

He  who  sang  upon  the  mountains  was  forgotten  long  ago — 
Not  one  song  of  his  remembered  as  the  swift  years  come  and  go. 
But  the  dwellers  in  the  valley  sing  the  other's  sweet  songs  o'er, 
And  as  his  grave  grows  greener  they  love  them  more  and  more. 


140  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

THE  UNFRUITFUL  TREE 

There  stood  in  a  beautiful  garden 
A  tall  and  stately  tree. 
Crowned  with  its  shining  leafage 
It  was  wondrous  fair  to  see. 
But  alas!  it  was  always  fruitless; 
Never  a  blossom  grew 
To  brighten  its  spreading  branches 
The  whole  long  season  through. 

The  lord  of  the  garden  saw  it, 

And  he  said,  when  the  leaves  were  sere, 

"Cut  down  this  tree  so  worthless, 

And  plant  another  here. 

My  garden  is  not  for  beauty 

Alone,  but  for  fruit,  as  well, 

And  no  barren  tree  must  cumber 

The  place  in  which  I  dwell." 

The  gardener  heard  in  sorrow, 

For  he  loved  the  barren  tree 

As  we  love  some  things  about  us 

That  are  only  fair  to  see. 

"Leave  it  one  season  longer, 

Only  one  more,  I  pray," 

He  plead,  but  the  lord  of  the  garden 

Was  firm,  and  answered,  "Nay." 

Then  the  gardener  dug  about  it, 
And  cut  its  roots  apart, 
And  the  fear  of  the  fate  before  it 
Struck  home  to  the  poor  tree's  heart. 
Faithful  and  true  to  his  master, 
Yet  loving  the  tree  as  well, 
The  gardener  toiled  in  sorrow 
Till  the  stormy  evening  fell. 

"Tomorrow,"  he  said,  "I  will  finish 
The  task  that  I  have  begun." 
But  the  morrow  was  wild  with  tempest, 
And  the  work  remained  undone. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  141 

And  through  all  the  long,  bleak  winter 
There  stood  the  desolate  tree, 
With  the  cold  white  snow  about  it, — 
A  sorrowful  thing  to  see. 

At  last,  the  sweet  spring  weather 

Made  glad  the  hearts  of  men, 

And  the  trees  in  the  lord's  fair  garden 

Put  forth  their  leaves  again. 

"I  will  finish  my  task  tomorrow," 

The  busy  gardener  said, 

And  thought,  with  a  thrill  of  sorrow, 

That  the  beautiful  tree  was  dead. 

The  lord  came  into  his  garden 

At  an  early  hour  irext  day, 

And  to  the  task  unfinished 

The  gardener  led  the  way. 

And  lo!  all  white  with  blossoms, 

Fairer  than  ever  to  see, 

In  the  promise  of  coming  fruitage 

Stood  the  sorely-chastened  tree. 

"It  is  well,"  said  the  lord  of  the  garden. 

And  he  and  the  gardener  knew 

That  out  of  its  loss  and  trial 

Its  promise  of  fruitfulness  grew. 

It  is  so  with  some  lives  that  cumber 

For  a  time  the  Lord's  domain. 

Out  of  trial  and  bitter  sorrow 

There  cometh  countless  gain, 

And  fruit  for  the  Master's  harvest 

Is  borne  of  loss  and  pain. 

A  DAY  IN  JUNE 

I  could  write  such  a  beautiful  poem 

About  this  summer  day 

If  my  pen  could  catch  the  beauty 

Of  every  leaf  and  spray, 

And  the  music  all  about  me 

Of  brooks,  and  winds,  and  birds, 


142  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

But  the  greatest  poet  living 

Cannot  put  them  into  words. 

If  I  might,  you  would  hear  all  through  it 

The  whispering  of  the  breeze, 

Like  a  fine  and  far-off  echo 

Of  the  ocean's  harmonies. 

You  would  hear  the  song  of  the  robin 

A-swing  in  the  appletree, 

And  the  voice  of  the  river  going 

On  its  search  for  the  great  gray  sea. 

You  would  breathe  the  fragrance  of  clover 

In  the  words  of  every  line, 

And  incense  out  of  the  censors 

Of  hillside  larch  and  pine. 

You  would  see  through  the  words  the  roses 

And  deep  in  their  hearts  of  gold 

The  sweets  of  a  thousand  summers, 

But  words  are  so  weak,  so  cold! 

If  I  only  could  write  the  color 
Of  the  lilacs'  tossing  plume, 
And  make  you  feel  in  a  sentence 
The  spell  of  its  rare  perfume: — 
If  my  pen  could  catch  the  glory 
Of  the  clouds  and  the  sunset  sky, 
And  the  peace  of  the  summer  twilight 
My  poem  would  never  die! 

SILVER  THREADS  AMONG  THE  GOLD 

Copyright,  1915,  by  Estate  of  Hamilton  S.  Gordon. 

I. 

Darling,  I  am  growing  old, — 
Silver  threads  among  the  gold, 
Shine  upon  my  brow  today;— 
Life  is  fading  fast  away; 
But,  my  darling,  you  will  be 
Always  young  and  fair  to  me, 
Yes!  my  darling,  you  will  be — 
Always  young  and  fair  to  me. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  143 

II. 

When  your  hair  is  silver-white, — 
And  your  cheeks  no  longer  bright 
With  the  roses  of  the  May, — 
I  will  kiss  your  lips,  and  say: 
Oh!  my  darling,  mine  alone, 
You  have  never  older  grown, 
Yes,  my  darling,  mine  alone, — 
You  have  never  older  grown. 

III. 

Love  can  never-more  grow  old, 
Locks  may  lose  their  brown  and  gold; 
Cheeks  may  fade  and  hollow  grow; 
But  the  hearts  that  love,  will  know 
Never,  winter's  frost  and  chill; 
Summer  warmth  is  in  them  still, 
Never  winter's  frost  and  chill, 
Summer  warmth  is  in  them  still. 

IV. 

Love  is  always  young  and  fair, — 
What  to  us  is  silver  hair, 
Faded  cheeks  or  steps  grown  slow, 
To  the  hearts  that  beat  below? 
Since  I  kissed  you,  mine  alone, 
You  have  never  older  grown, 
Since  I  kissed  you,  mine  alone, 
You  have  never  older  grown. 

Chorus  to  last  verse. 
Darling,  we  are  growing  old, 
Silver  threads  among  the  gold, 
Shine  upon  my  brow  today;  — 
Life  is  fading  fast  away. 

WHEN  SILVER  THREADS  ARE  GOLD  AGAIN 

Words   by   Eben    E.    Rexford;    music   by   H.   P.    Banks.     Copyright, 
1915,  by  Estate  of  Hamilton  S.  Gordon. 

You  tell  me  we  are  growing  old, 
And  show  the  silver  in  your  hair, 


144  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Whence  time  has  stolen  all  the  gold, 
That  made  your  youthful  tresses  fair; 
But  years  can  never  steal  away 
The  love  that  never  can  grow  old. 
So  what  care  we  for  tresses  gray, — 
Since  love  will  always  keep  its  gold. 

Oh,  darling,  I  can  read  today, 
.     The  question  in  your  thoughtful  eyes; 
You  wonder  if  I  long  for  May, — 
Beneath  the  autumn's  frosty  skies. 
Oh,  love  of  mine,  be  sure  of  this: 
For  me  no  face  could  be  so  fair 
As  this  one  that  I  stoop  to  kiss 
Beneath  its  crown  of  silver  hair. 

Oh,  darling,  though  your  step  grows  slow, 
And   time  has  furrowed   well  your  brow, 
And  all  June's  roses  hide  in  snow, 
You  never  were  so  dear  as  now. 
Oh,  truest,  tend'rest  heart  of  all, 
Lean  on  me  when  you  weary  grow, 
As  days,  like  leaves  of  autumn,  fall 
About  the  feet  that  falter  so. 

Oh,  darling,  with  your  hand  in  mine, 
We'll  journey  all  life's  pathway  through, 
With  happy  tears  your  dear  eyes  shine 
Like  sweet  blue  blossoms  in  the  dew. 
The  sorrows  of  the  passing  years 
Have  made  us  love  each  other  more, 
And  every  day  that  disappears 
I  count  you  dearer  than  before. 

Chorus. 

Oh,  love,  I  tell  you  with  a  kiss, 
If  heav'n  gives  back  the  youth  we  miss 
Your  face  will  be  no  fairer  then 
When  silver  threads  are  gold  again. 


CARL  SCHURZ. 

Carl  Schurz  was  born  at  Liblar,  Prussia,  1829.  He  was 
educated  in  the  gymnasium  of  Cologne,  and  the  University  of 
Bonne.  He  entered  the  revolutionary  army  in  1848,  and  was 
likewise  the  editor  of  a  revolutionary  paper.  He  was  obliged 
to  flee  to  Switzerland,  and  his  accounts  of  his  narrow  escapes 
in  getting  across  the  border,  as  given  in  his  Reminiscences,  are 
intensely  thrilling.  He  came  to  America  in  1852,  and  after 
three  years'  residence  in  Philadelphia,  he  settled  in  Watertown, 
in  our  own  state.  Though  he  was  later  a  resident  of  Michigan^ 
Missouri,  and  New  York,  and  indeed  represented  the  second- 
named  state  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  yet  throughout 
his  Reminiscences  he  frequently  speaks  of  Wisconsin  in  a  man- 
ner that  shows  he  thought  of  it  as  his  home. 

His  life  as  an  American  citizen  was  full  of  honor  and  re- 
sponsibility. He  was  made  Minister  to  Spain  by  President  Lin- 
coln, but  soon  resigned  to  come  back  home  and  serve  in  the 
Civil  War.  He  was  a  brigadier-general,  of  volunteers  and  took 
part  in  the  battles  of  Chancellorsville,  Gettysburg,  and  Chat- 
tanooga. During  all  the  rest  of  his  life  he  was  active  in  the 
service  of  his  country,  both  in  and  out  of  office.  He  was 
strongly  on  the  side  of  reconciliation  with  the  South,  and  he 
hoped  and  worked  for  a  re-united  country.  His  addresses  and 
his  letters  show  his  intense  faith  in  Civil  Service  reform.  His 
Reminiscences  indicate  how  thoroughly  American  this  man 
became,  and  how  deeply  he  appreciated,  and  how  jealously  he 
wished  to  guard,  the  freedom  which  he  had  failed  to  find  in  his 
mother  country,  and  which  he  had  risked  so  much  to  obtain 
here. 

The  first  selection  here  given  is  from  Volume  I  of  his  Rem- 
iniscences. It  relates  the  escape  from  the  prison  at  Spandau 
of  his  dear  friend,  Professor  Kinkel,  in  which  Schurz  played 
an  important  part.  We  see  here  how  closely  organized  this 
band  of  revolutionists  was,  and  the  intensity  of  their  love  for 
each  other,  together  with  the  sense  of  fun  and  adventure  in  all 
they  did. 

The  second  selection  is  characteristic  of  the  oratory  of  Mr. 
Schurz  during  his  later  years.  It  shows  an  intense  patriotism, 
and  emphasizes  the  fact  that  though  he  was  not  born  here,  for 
him  but  one  country  had  the  slightest  claim  upon  his  devotion. 


146  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

THE  REMINISCENCES  OF  CARL  SCHURZ 

Prom   Vol.   1—1829-1852.     Chapter  X.   p.    811.     Copyright,    1907,    b/ 
the  McCiure  Co. 

•Shortly  before  midnight  I  stood,  equipped  as  on  tne 
night  before,  well  hidden  in  the  dark  recess  of  the  hoise 
door  opposite  the  penitentiary.  The  street  corners  r:ght 
and  left  were,  according  to  agreement,  properly  watched, 
but  our  friends  kept  themselves,  as  much  as  possible, 
concealed.  A  few  minutes  later  the  night  watchman 
shuffled  down  the  street,  and,  when  immediately  in  front 
of  me,  swung  his  rattle  and  called  the  hour  of  twelve. 
Then  he  slouched  quietly  on  and  disappeared.  What 
would  I  have  given  for  a  roaring  storm  and  a  splashing 
rain!  But  the  night  was  perfectly  still.  My  eye  was 
riveted  to  the  roof  of  the  penitentiary  building,  the 
dormer  windows  of  which  I  could  scarcely  distinguish. 
The  street  lights  flared  dimly.  Suddenly  there  appeared 
a  light  above,  by  which  I  could  observe  the  frame  of  one 
of  the  dormer  windows ;  it  moved  three  times  up  and 
down ;  that  was  the  signal  hoped  for.  With  an  eager 
glance  I  examined  the  street  right  and  left.  Nothing 
stirred.  Then  on  my  part  I  gave  the  signal  agreed  upon, 
striking  sparks.  A  second  later  the  light  above  dis- 
appeared and  I  perceived  a  dark  object  slowly  moving 
across  the  edge  of  the  wall.  My  heart  beat  violently  and 
drops  of  perspiration  stood  upon  my  forehead.  Then  the 
thing  I  had  apprehended  actually  happened:  tiles  and 
brick,  loosened  by  the  rubbing  rope,  rained  down  upon 
the  pavement  with  a  loud  clatter.  "Now,  good  heaven, 
help  us!"  At  the  same  moment  Hensers  carriage  came 
rumbling  over  the  cobblestones.  The  noise  of  the  falling 
tiles  and  brick  was  no  longer  audible.  But  would  they 
not  strike  Kinkel's  head  and  benumb  him?  Now  the 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  147 

dark  object  had  almost  reached  the  ground.  I  jumped 
forward  and  touched  him;  it  was  indeed  my  friend  and 
tlere  he  stood  alive  and  on  his  feet. 

"This  is  a  bold  deed,"  were  the  first  words  he  said 
to  me. 

" Thank  God,"  I  answered.  "Now  off  with  the  rope 
and  away." 

I  labored  in  vain  to  untie  the  rope  that  was  wound 
around  his  body. 

' '  I  cannot  help  you, ' '  Kinkel  whispered,  ' '  for  the  rope 
has  fearfully  lacerated  both  my  hands."  I  pulled  out 
my  dirk,  and  with  great  effort  I  succeeded  in  cutting  the 
rope,  the  long  end  of  which,  as  soon  as  it  was  free,  was 
quickly  pulled  up.  While  I  threw  a  cloak  around  Kin- 
kel's  shoulders  and  helped  him  get  into  the  rubber  shoes, 
he  looked  anxiously  around.  Hensel's  carriage  had 
turned  and  was  coming  slowly  back. 

"What  carriage  is  that?"  Kinkel  asked. 

"Our  carriage." 

Dark  figures  showed  themselves  at  the  street  corners 
and  approached  us. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  what  people  are  those?" 

"Our  friends." 

At  a  little  distance  we  heard  male  voices  sing,  "Here 
we  sit  gayly  together." 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Kinkel,  while  we  hurried 
through  a  side  street  toward  Kruger's  hotel. 

"Your  jailers  around  a  bowl  of  punch." 

"Capital!"  said  Kinkel.  We  entered  the  hotel 
through  a  back  door  and  soon  found  ourselves  in  a  room 
in  which  Kinkel  was  to  put  on  the  clothes  that  we  had 
bought  for  him — a  black  cloth  suit,  a  big  bear-skin  over- 
coat, and  a  cap  like  those  worn  by  Prussian  forest  officers. 


148  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

From  a  room  near  by  sounded  the  voices  of  the  revelers. 
Kruger,  who  had  stood  a  few  minutes  looking  on  while 
Kinkel  was  exchanging  his  convict's  garb  for  an  honest 
man's  dress,  suddenly  went  out  with  a  peculiarly  sly 
smile.  When  he  returned  carrying  a  few  filled  glasses, 
he  said,  "Herr  Professor,  in  a  room  near  by  some  of 
your  jailers  are  sitting  around  a  bowl  of  punch.  I  have 
just  asked  them  whether  they  would  not  permit  me  to 
take  some  for  a  few  friends  of  mine  who  have  just  arrived. 
They  had  no  objection.  Now,  Herr  Professor,  let  us  drink 
your  health  first  out  of  the  bowl  of  your  jailers."  We 
found  it  difficult  not  to  break  out  in  loud  laughter.  Kin- 
kel was  now  in  his  citizen's  clothes,  and  his  lacerated 
hands  were  washed  and  bandaged  with  handkerchiefs. 
He  thanked  his  faithful  friends  with  a  few  words  which 
brought  tears  to  their  eyes.  Then  we  jumped  into  Hen- 
sel's  vehicle.  The  penitentiary  officers  were  still  singing 
and  laughing  around  their  punch  bowl. 

THE  TRUE  AMERICANISM 

By    Carl    Schurx.     From     "MODERN    ELOQUENCE."     Vol.    IX,    p. 
1026.     Copyright.   1900,  by  The  University  Society. 

(Address  delivered  in  New  York  City  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Chamber  of  Commerce  of  the  State  of  New  York,  January  2, 
1896,  Mr.  Schurz  rising  to  second  the-  resolutions  embodied 
in  a  report  to  the  Chamber  by  its  Committee  on  Foreign  Com- 
merce and  the  Revenue  Laws  upon  the  then  pending  Venezue- 
lan question). 

*  *  *  What  is  the  rule  of  honor  to  be  observed  by- 
a  power  so  strongly  and  so  advantageously  situated  as 
this  Republic  is?  Of  course  I  do  not  expect  it  meekly  to 
pocket  real  insults  if  they  should  be  offered  to  it.  But, 
surely,  it  should  not,  as  our  boyish  jingoes  wish  it  to  do, 
swagger  about  among  the  nations  of  the  world,  with  a 
chip  on  its  shoulder,  shaking  its  fist  in  everybody's 
face.  Of  course,  it  should  not  tamely  submit  to  real  en- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  149 

croachments  upon  its  rights.  But,  surely,  it  should  not, 
whenever  its  own  notions  of  right  or  interest  collide  with 
the  notions  of  others,  fall  into  hysterics  and  act  as  if  it 
really  feared  for  its  own  security  and  its  very  independ- 
ence. As  a  true  gentleman,  conscious  of  his  strength  and 
his  dignity,  it  should  be  slow  to  take  offense.  In  its  deal- 
ings with  other  nations  it  should  have  scrupulous  regard, 
not  only  for  their  rights,  but  also  for  their  self-respect. 
With  all  its  latent  resources  for  war,  it  should  be  the 
great  peace  power  of  the  world.  It  should  never  forget 
what  a  proud  privilege  and  what  an  inestimable  blessing 
it  is  not  to  need  and  not  to  have  big  armies  or  navies  to 
support.  It  should  seek  to  influence  mankind,  not  by 
heavy  artillery,  but  by  good  example  and  wise  counsel. 
It  should  see  its  highest  glory,  not  in  battles  won,  but  in 
wars  prevented.  It  should  be  so  invariably  just  and 
fair,  so  trustworthy,  so  good  tempered,  so  conciliatory, 
that  other  nations  would  instinctively  turn  to  it  as  their 
mutual  friend  and  the  natural  adjuster  of  their  differ- 
ences, thus  making  it  the  greatest  preserver  of  the  world's 
peace. 

This  is  not  a  mere  idealistic  fancy.  It  is  the  natural 
position  of  this  great  republic  among  the  nations  of  the 
earth.  It  is  its  noblest  vocation,  and  it  will  be  a  glorious 
day  for  the  United  States  when  the  good  sense  and  the 
self-respect  of  the  American  people  see  in  this  their 
"manifest  destiny/'  It  all  rests  upon  peace.  Is  not  this 
peace  with  honor?  There  has,  of  late,  been  much  loose 
speech  about  "Americanism."  Is  not  this  good  Ameri- 
canism? It  is  surely  today  the  Americanism  of  those 
who  love  their  country  most.  And  I  fervently  hope  that 
it  will  be  and  ever  remain  the  Americanism  of  our 
children  and  our  children's  children. 


MRS.  HONORE  WILLSIE. 

Mrs.  Honor6  McCue  Willsie  is  a  young  woman  who  received 
her  collegiate  training  in  the  writing  of  English  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Wisconsin,  she  being  a  graduate  of  that  institution  with 
the  class  of  1902.  Since  her  graduation  she  has  written  many 
things  that  have  claimed  the  attention  of  readers  in  all  parts 
of  our  country.  She  has  traveled  widely.  She  writes  intimately 
and  understanding^  of  the  Indians  of  our  Southwest,  as  well 
as  of  society  folk  of  New  York.  Many  readers  of  this  volume 
have,  no  doubt,  read  her  story,  "Still  Jim,"  recently  published 
in  Everybody's  Magazine.  Aside  from  the  story  here  published, 
perhaps  the  best-known  work  of  Mrs.  Willsie  is  "We  Die,  We 
Die — There  is  No  Hope,"  a  plea  for  the  Indians  of  the  South- 
west 

The  editors  of  this  book  are  very  proud  to  be  permitted  to 
publish  "The  Forbidden  North."  It  impresses  them  as  being 
one  of  the  great  dog  stories  of  all  time.  No  doubt  Mrs.  Willsie 
got  some  of  her  inspiration  in  writing  it  from  a  Great  Dane 
puppy,  Cedric,  who  was  her  constant  companion  during  her 
upper  classman  years  at  the  University  of  Wisconsin.  Indeed, 
this  pair — the  tall,  dark-haired  girl  and  the  great,  dun-colored 
dog — were  a  familiar  sight  to  the  students  of  the  University 
and  the  residents  of  Madison.  The  reader  may  be  sure  that 
all  the  love  expressed  for  Saxe  Gotha  is  genuine. 

THE  FORBIDDEN  NORTH— THE  STORY  OP  A  GREAT 
DANE  PUPPY 

Reprinted,  by  permission,  from  the  Youth's  Companion. 

One  hot  morning,  a  year  or  so  ago,  an  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin  Company  arrived  in  a  small  Arizona  town.  On  the 
platform  of  the  blistered  station  the  members  of  the 
company  learned  that  the  hall  in  which  they  were  to 
play  had  just  burned  to  the  ground.  That  was  the  last 
straw  for  the  company.  They  were  without  money ;  they 
stood,  disconsolately  staring  at  the  train,  which  waited 
for  half  an  hour  while  the  tourists  ate  breakfast  in  the 
lunchroom  of  the  station. 


HONORfi  WILLffIB 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  153 

The  stage-manager  held  in  leash  three  dogs — the  dogs 
that  the  bill-posters  displayed  as  ferocious  bloodhounds, 
pursuing  Eliza  across  the  ice.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Coburg  and  Hilda  were  two  well-bred,  well-trained  Great 
Danes.  The  third  dog,  Saxe  Gotha,  a  puppy  of  ten 
months,  was  their  son. 

A  well-dressed  tourist  eyed  the  dogs  intensely ;  finally, 
he  came  up  and  felt  them  over  with  the  hand  of  the  dog- 
fancier. 

' '  Give  me  fifty  dollars  for  the  three  of  them ! ' '  said  the 
manager  suddenly. 

The  stranger  stared  at  the  manager  suspiciously. 
Fifty  dollars  was  a  low  price  for  such  dogs.  The  stranger 
did  not  believe  that  so  poor  a  company  could  have  come 
by  them  honestly.  However,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  drew  a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket. 

"All  right, "  he  said.  "Only  I  don't  want  the  pup. 
He's  bad  with  distemper.  I  haven't  time  to  fuss  with 
him." 

The  manager  in  turn  shrugged  his  shoulders,  took  the 
fifty  dollars,  and,  while  the  new  owner  led  Coburg  and 
Hilda  toward  the  baggage-car  of  the  train,  the  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin  Company  boarded  the  day  coach. 

Thus  it  happened  that  a  thorough-bred  Great  Dane 
puppy,  whose  father  and  mother  had  been  born  in  the 
soft  green  dusk  of  a  German  forest — a  young  boarhound 
—was  left  to  fight  for  his  sick  life  on  the  parching  sands 
of  an  alien  .desert. 

There  had  been  no  need  to  tie  Saxe  Gotha.  When  the 
puppy  had  started  down  the  platform  after  his  father 
and  mother,  the  manager  had  given  him  a  hasty  kick  and 
a  "Get  back,  you!"  Saxe  Gotha  sat  down  on  his 
haunches,  panting  in  the  burning  sun,  and  stared  after 


154  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

the  receding  train  with  the  tragic  look  of  understanding 
common  to  his  kind.  Yet,  in  his  eyes  there  was  less 
regret  than  fear.  The  Dane  is  a  "one-man  dog."  If  he 
is  given  freedom  of  choice,  he  chooses  for  master  a  man 
to  whom  he  gives  his  heart.  Other  men  may  own  him; 
no  other  man  except  this  choice  of  his  heart  ever  wins  his 
love.  Saxe  Gotha  had  yet  to  find  his  man. 

The  station-master  started  toward  the  dog,  but  Saxe 
Gotha  did  not  heed  him.  He  rose  and  trotted  toward  the 
north,  through  the  little  town,  quite  as  if  he  had  business 
in  that  direction.  The  pup  was  not  handsome  at  this 
period  of  his  life.  He  was  marked  like  a  tiger  with  tawny 
and  gray  stripes.  His  feet  and  his  head  looked  too  large 
for  him,  and  his  long  back  seemed  to  sag  with  the  weight 
of  his  stomach.  But,  even  to  the  most  ignorant  observer, 
he  gave  promise  of  distinction,  of  superb  size,  and 
strength,  and  intelligence. 

At  the  edge  of  the  little  town,  Saxe  Gotha  buried  his 
feverish  head  in  the  watering-trough  at  the  Wrenn 
rancho,  drank  till  his  sides  swelled  visibly,  then  started 
on  along  the  trail  with  his  business-like  puppy  trot. 
When  he  got  out  into  the  open  desert,  which  stretched 
thirty  miles  wide  from  the  river  range  to  the  Hualpai, 
and  one  hundred  miles  long  from  the  railway  to  the  Colo- 
rado River,  he  found  the  northern  trail  with  no  apparent 
difficulty  .  .,  .  Saxe  Gotha  was  headed  for  the  north, 
for  the  cool,  sweet  depth  of  forest  that  was  his  natural 
home. 

He  took  fairly  good  care  of  himself.  At  intervals  he 
dropped  in  the  shade  of  a  joshua-tree,  and,  after  strug- 
gling to  bite  the  cholla  thorns  from  his  feet,  he  would 
doze  for  a  few  minutes,  then  start  on  again.  His  dis- 
temper was  easier  in  the  sun,  although  his  fever  and  the 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  155 

desert  heat  soon  evaporated  the  moisture  that  he  had 
absorbed  at  the  Wrenn's. 

About  three  o'clock  he  stopped,  wrinkled  his  black 
muzzle,  and  raised  his  finely  domed  head.  The  trail  now 
lay  along  the  foot  of  the  Hualpai.  He  turned  abruptly  to 
the  right,  off  the  main  trail,  and  trotted  into  a  little 
canon.  On  the  other  side  of  a  rock  that  hid  it  from  the 
main  trail  was  Jim  Baldwin's  tent.  Jim  came  to  the 
door,  at  the  sound  of  Saxe  Gotha  drinking  up  his  little 
spring.  Jim  was  a  lover  of  dogs.  He  did  not  know  Saxe 
Gotha 's  breed,  but  he  did  recognize  his  promise  of 
distinction. 

' '  Howdy,  old  man ! ' '  said  Jim.    '  '  Have  a  can  of  beef ! ' ' 

Saxe  Gotha  responded  to  the  greeting  with  a  puppy 

gambol,  and  devoured  the  beef  with  gusto.     Jim  went 

into  the  tent  for  a  rope.    When  he  returned,  the  pup  was 

a  receding  dot  on  the  north  trail. 

***** 

About  four  o'clock,  the  tri-weekly  stage  from  the 
Happy  Luck  camp  met  Saxe  Gotha.  Dick  Furman,  the 
driver,  stopped  the  panting  horses  and  invited  the  huge 
puppy  to  ride  with  him.  Saxe  Gotha  wriggled,  chased 
his  tail  round  once  with  a  bark  like  the  booming  of  a 
town  clock,  and  with  this  exchange  of  courtesies  Dick 
drove  on  southward,  and  the  pup  continued  on  his  way 

to  the  north. 

***** 

As  darkness  came  on,  he  slowed  his  pace,  paused  and 
sniffed,  and  again  turned  off  the  main  trail  to  a  rough 
path  up  the  side  of  the  mountain.  Before  a  silent  hut  of 
adobe,  he  found  a  half-barrel  of  water.  Saxe  Gotha  rose 
on  his  hind  legs,  thrust  his  nose  into  the  barrel  and 
drank  lustily.  Then  he  stood  rigid,  with  uncropped  ears 


156  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

lifted  and  nose  thrust  upward,  sniffing.  After  a  minute 
he  whined.  The  business  to  the  north  was  pressing;  the 
pup  did  not  want  to  stop;  yet  he  still  stood,  listening, 
sniffing.  At  last,  he  started  back  to  the  main  trail ;  when 
he  reached  it,  he  stopped  once  more,  and  once  more  sniffed 
and  listened  and  whined;  then  he  deliberately  turned 
back  to  the  silent  hut,  and  trotted  along  the  narrow  trail 
that  led  up  behind  it  to  the  west. 

A  short  distance  up  the  mountain,  clear  in  the  light  of 
the  noon,  a  tiny  spring  bubbled  out  of  the  ground,  form- 
ing a  pool  the  size  of  a  wash-basin.  A  man  lay  beside  the 
pool.  Saxe  Gotha  walked  up  to  him,  whining,  and  then 
walked  round  and  round  him,  sniffing  him  from  head  to 
foot.  He  licked  his  face  and  pawed  at  his  shoulder  with 
his  clumsy  paw.  But  the  man  lay  in  the  heavy  slumber 
of  utter  exhaustion.  He  was  a  tall,  lean,  strong  young 
fellow,  in  his  early  twenties.  His  empty  canteen,  his  pick 
and  bar  beside  him,  with  a  sack  of  ore,  showed  that  he 
was  just  back  from  a  prospecting  trip.  He  had  evidently 
run  short  of  water  and,  after  a  forced  march  to  the 
spring,  where  he  had  relieved  his  thirst,  had  dropped 
asleep  on  the  spot. 

At  last  Saxe  Gotha  lay  down  with  his  nose  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder,  and  his  brown  eyes  were  alert  in 

the  moonlight.    Saxe  Gotha  had  found  his  man! 
***** 

Saxe  Gotha  had  found  his  man!  A  discovery  as  im- 
portant as  that,  of  course,  delayed  the  journey  toward 
the  north.  All  through  the  desert  night  the  Great  Dane 
pup  lay  shivering  beside  his  man.  What  he  saw  beyond 
the  silent  desert,  what  vision  of  giant  tree  trunks,  gray- 
green  against  an  age-old  turf,  lured  his  exiled  heart  we 
cannot  know.  To  understand  what  sudden  fealty  to  the 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  157 

heedless  form  he  guarded  forbade  him  his  north  would 
solve  the  riddle  of  love  itself. 

Little  by  little  the  stars  faded.  At  last  dawn  lighted 
the  face  of  the  sleeping  man;  he  stirred,  and  suddenly 
sat  up.  Saxe  Gotha  bounded  to  his  feet  with  a  bark  of 
joy.  Startled,  the  young  man  jumped  up,  staggering 
with  weakness,  and  scowled  when  he  saw  the  big  puppy 
chasing  his  tail.  Hunger  and  a  guilty  conscience  are 
richly  productive  of  vicious  moods.  Saxe  Gotha 's  man 
picked  up  a  rock  and  hurled  it  at  him. 

' '  Git !    You  blamed  hound,  you ! " 

In  utter  astonishment,  Saxe  Gotha  paused  in  his 
joyous  barking,  and  stood  staring  at  the  young  fellow's 
sullen  face.  It  was  unbelievable!  The  young  man  did 
not  in  the  least  realize  that  he  had  been  found !  And  yet, 
despite  the  eyes  inflamed  by  the  glare  of  the  desert,  his 
face  was  an  intelligent  one,  with  good  features.  He 
glared  at  the  pup,  and  then  walked  weakly  down  the 
trail  to  his  hut.  Saxe  Gotha  followed,  and  sat  on  his 
haunches  before  the  door,  waiting.  After  a  long  time, 
the  young  man  came  out,  washed  and  shaved,  and  with 
fresh  clothes.  He  picked  up  his  sack  of  ore,  and  as  he 
did  so,  a  haunted  look  came  into  his  gray  eyes.  Such  a 
look  on  so  young  a  face  might  have  told  Saxe  Gotha  that 
the  desert  is  bad  for  youth.  But  Saxe  Gotha  would  not 
have  cared.  He  kept  his  distance  warily  and  wagged  his 
tail.  When  the  young  man's  glance  fell  on  the  dog,  he 
saw  him  as  something  living  on  which  to  vent  his  own 
sense  of  guilt.  Again  he  threw  a  stone  at  Saxe  Gotha. 

"Get  out!    Go  back  where  you  belong!" 

The  pup  dodged,  and  stood  waiting.  Strangely  dense 
his  man  was !  The  young  man  did  not  look  at  him  again, 
but  fell  to  sorting  samples  of  ore.  Certain  tiny  pieces 


158  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

he  gloated  over  as  he  found  them,  and  he  put  them  in  a 
sack  that  he  hid  behind  the  door. 

Now,  Saxe  Gotha  never  meant  to  do  it,  but  he  was 
young,  and  his  distemper  made  him  very  ill,  and  he  had 
not  slept  all  night.  When  he  saw  his  man  safely  ab- 
sorbed in  his  work,  he  curled  up  in  the  shade  of  a  rock 
and  went  off  into  the  heavy  sleep  of  a  sick  dog. 

When  he  awoke,  his  man  was  gone!  Saxe  Gotha  ran 
round  and  round  through  the  adobe.  The  house  was 
thick  with  scents  of  him,  but  whither  he  had  gone  was 
not  to  be  told,  for  desert  sands  hold  no  scents.  On  the 
door-step  lay  an  old  vest  of  the  man's.  The  dog  sat  down 
on  this,  and  lifted  his  voice  in  a  howl  of  anguish.  There 
was  only  one  thing  to  do,  of  course — wait  for  the  man's 

return. 

•     •     •     •     * 

All  day  Saxe  Gotha  waited.  He  drank  deeply  from 
the  barrel  of  water,  but  he  went  without  food,  although 
the  remains  of  the  young  man's  breakfast  lay  on  the 
table.  It  was  not  in  Saxe  Gotha 's  breed  to  steal.  All  day 
and  all  night  he  waited.  Now  and  again,  he  lifted  his 
great  voice  in  grief.  With  his  face  to  that  north  which 
he  had  forbidden  himself  to  seek,  even  though  he  was 
but  a  dog,  he  might  have  been  youth  mourning  its  peren- 
nial discovery  that  duty  and  desire  do  not  always  go 
hand  in  hand.  Saxe  Gotha  might  have  been  all  the 
courage,  all  the  loneliness,  all  the  grief  of  youth,  dis- 
illusioned. 

The  morning  of  the  second  day,  a  man  rode  up  the 
trail.  He  was  not  Saxe  Gotha 's  man.  He  dismounted, 
and  called,  "Hey,  Evans!" 

Saxe  Gotha,  a  little  unsteady  on  his  legs,  sat  on  his 
haunches  and  growled. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  159 

"Where's  your  boss,  pup?"  asked  the  man.  "I 
didn  't  know  he  had  a  dog. ' ' 

Saxe  Gotha  growled. 

"Humph!"  said  the  man.  "Off  stealing  ore  again, 
I  suppose." 

The  stranger  prowled  round  the  outside  of  the  hut, 
and  then  came  to  the  door. 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  dog!  I'm  going  to  find  out 
where  this  rich  claim  is  that  he's  finding  free  gold  in. 
He's  a  thief,  anyhow,  not  to  report  it  to  his  company." 

As  he  put  his  foot  on  the  door-step,  Saxe  Gotha 
snapped  at  him.  The  stranger  jumped  back. 

"You  brute  hound!"  he  cried.  "What  do  you  mean? 
If  I  had  a  gun,  I'd  shoot  you!" 

Saxe  Gotha 's  anger  gave  him  strength  to  rise.  He 
stood  lurching ;  his  lips  were  drawn  back  over  his  fangs, 
his  ears  were  flat  to  his  head.  The  stranger  walked  back 
a  few  steps. 

"He  must  weigh  nearly  a  hundred  pounds!"  he  mut- 
tered. "Come  on,  old  pup.  Here,  have  some  of  my 
snack!  Here's  a  piece  of  corned  beef!  Come  on,  old 
fellow!" 

Cajolery  and  threats  were  alike  futile.  Saxe  Gotha 
was  guarding  for  his  man.  After  a  while  the  dog's  dumb 
fury  maddened  the  stranger.  He  began  to  hurl  rocks  at 
the  pup.  At  first  the  shots  were  harmless ;  then  a  jagged 
piece  of  ore  caught  the  dog  on  the  cheek  and  laid  it  open, 
and  another  slashed  his  back.  With  the  snarl  of  a  tiger, 
Saxe  Gotha  made  a  leap  from  the  door  at  the  stranger's 
throat.  The  man  screamed,  and  jumped  for  his  horse  so 
hastily  that  Saxe  Gotha  caught  only  the  shoulder  of  his 
coat  and  ripped  the  back  out  of  the  garment.  Before  the 
pup  could  gather  his  weakened  body  for  another  charge, 


160  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

the  stranger  was  mounted.  He  whipped  his  snorting 
horse  down  the  trail,  and  disappeared. 

Saxe  Gotha  feebly  worried  at  the  torn  coat,  then 
dragged  himself  back  to  the  door  and  lay  down  on  the 
vest,  too  weak  to  lick  his  wounds.  The  rest  of  the  morn- 
ing he  lay  quiet.  At  noon  he  suddenly  opened  his  eyes. 
His  ears  pricked  forward,  and  his  tail  beat  feebly  on  the 
floor.  His  man  rode  up.  He  had  a  sack  of  fresh  supplies 
thrown  across  his  saddle.  He  turned  his  horse  into  the 
corral,  then  came  toward  the  hut.  The  vicious  mood 
seemed  still  to  be  with  him. 

"You  still  here?"  he  growled. 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  piece  of  cloth,  picked  it 
up,  and  looked  at  the  mauled  and  blood-stained  muck  on 
it.  He  stared  at  Saxe  Gotha  curiously. 

"Johnson  was  here,  eh!  I'd  know  that  check  any- 
where. The  thief!  What  happened f" 

As  Evans  came  up,  Saxe  Gotha  tried  to  give  the  old 
gambol  of  joy,  but  succeeded  only  in  falling  heavily.  The 
young  fellow  strode  into  the  hut,  and  walked  slowly 
about.  The  sack  of  nuggets  was  still  behind  the  door. 
The  map  that  he  had  long  ago  prepared  for  the  company 
for  which  he  was  investigating  mines  still  lay  covered 
with  dust.  On  the  table  were  the  hunk  of  bacon,  the 
fried  potatoes,  the  dry  bread.  A  number  of  jagged  rocks 

were  scattered  on  the  floor.    The  dog  was  bloody. 

***** 

Slowly  young  Evans  turned  his  whole  attention  to 
Saxe  Gotha,  who  lay  watching  him  with  passionate  in- 
tentness.  Evans  took  a  handful  of  raw  potato  skins  from 
the  table  and  offered  them  to  the  pup.  Saxe  Gotha 
snatched  at  them  and  swallowed  them  as  if  frenzied  with 
hunger.  Evans  looked  at  the  food  on  the  table,  then  at 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  161 

the  famished,  emaciated  dog.  He  stood  gripping  the  edge 
of  the  table  and  staring  out  at  the  desert.  A  slow  red 
came  up  from  his  neck  and  crossed  his  face ;  it  seemed  a 
magic  red,  for  it  wiped  the  vicious  lines  from  his  face 
and  left  it  boyish  and  shamed.  Suddenly  his  lips  trembled. 
He  dropped  down  in  the  doorway  and  ran  his  hand 
gently  along  the  pup's  sensitive  back.  His  bloodshot  eyes 
were  blinded  with  tears. 

"Old  man,"  he  whispered  to  Saxe  Gotha,  "I  wasn't 
worth  it!" 

The  dog  looked  up  into  the  young  man's  face  with  an 
expression  eager  and  questioning.  And  then,  summoning 
all  his  feeble  strength,  he  crowded  his  long,  awkward 
body  into  the  young  man 's  lap.  . 

After  a  moment  he  set  Saxe  Gotha  on  the  floor  and 
fed  him  a  can  of  evaporated  milk,  carefully  warmed, 
with  bits  of  freshly  fried  bacon  in  it.  He  washed  out  the 
dog's  cuts,  then  put  him  to  bed  in  his  own  bunk.  All 
that  afternoon,  while  the  dog  slept,  Evans  paced  the  hut, 
fighting  his  fight.  And,  like  all  solitary  desert-dwellers, 
he  talked  aloud  .  .  . 

"They  promised  to  pay  me  regularly,  to  raise  me,  to 
give  me  a  job  in  the  home  office  after  a  year.  It's  been 
two  years  now.  Yes,  I  know,  I  made  some  promises. 
I  was  to  report  all  finds  and  turn  in  all  valuable  ore  to 
them.  But  they  haven't  treated  me  right." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  sleeping  dog,  and  his  face  soft- 
ened. 

"Wouldn't  that  beat  you,  his  not  eating  the  stuff  on 
the  table!  Goodness  knows  I'd  treated  him  badly 
enough!  It  seems  as  if  even  a  dog  might  have  a  sense 
of  honor;  as  if  it  didn't  matter  what  I  was,  the  fool  pup 
had  to  keep  straight  with  himself;  as  if — " 


162  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Suddenly  Evans  stopped  and  gulped.  Again  came 
the  slow,  agonizing  blush.  For  a  long  time  he  stood  in 
silence.  Finally,  he  squared  his  shoulders  and  moistened 
his  lips. 

"I  can  send  the  maps  and  what  ore  I  have  left  by 
stage  tomorrow.  But  it  will  take  another  year  to  get  the 
whole  thing  straightened  up,  and  get  them  paid  back— 
another  year  of  loneliness,  and  sand-storms,  and  swelter- 
ing. No  snowy  Christmas  or  green  spring  or  the  smell  of 
burning  leaves  in  the  fall  this  year  for  me.  I  guess  the 
pup  will  stay  by  me,  though." 

As  if  he  realized  that  there  was  need  of  him,  Saxe 
Gotha  woke,  and  ambled  over  to  the  man's  side.  Evans 
sat  down  in  the  door,  and  the  dog  squatted  beside  him. 
Evans  turned,  took  the  dog's  great  head  between  his 
hands,  and  looked  into  the  limpid  eyes. 

"I  guess,  old  man,  that  there  are  more  ways  than  one 
of  making  a  success  of  yourself,  and  money-making  is  the 
least  of  them." 

In  Evans's  eyes  were  the  loneliness  and  grief  of  dis- 
appointed youth.  But  the  rest  of  his  face  once  more  was 
clear  and  boyish  with  the  wonderful  courage  of  the 
young. 

Saxe  Gotha  pawed  Evans's  knee  wistfully.  Perhaps 
across  the  stillness  of  the  desert  he  caught  the  baying  of 
the  hunting  pack  in  some  distant,  rain-drenched  wood- 
land. Yet  he  would  not  go.  The  dog  leaned  warmly 
against  his  man,  who  slid  an  arm  across  the  tawny  back. 
Then,  with  faces  to  their  forbidden  north,  man  and  dog 
watched  the  desert  night  advance. 


EDNA  FERBER. 

Among  those  who  are  striving  for  a  permanent  place  among 
short  story  writers  is  Edna  Ferber,  a  young  woman  who  makes 
her  stories  interesting  through  her  own  keen  observation  of 
character  traits  revealed  in  the  everyday  life  about  her.  Miss 
Ferber's  work  deserves  mention  among  any  group  of  Wisconsin 
writers  quite  as  much  from  the  promise  of  what  may  still  come 
as  from  that  already  accomplished.  Her  ability  to  see  the  real 
in  character  and  the  truth  in  real  life  is  the  strong  character- 
istic of  her  work.  She  has  attempted  to  follow  somewhat 
closely  the  language  of  the  everyday  life  she  portrays. 

Edna  Ferber's  short  stories,  many  of  which  have  appeared 
in  various  magazines,  have  been  collected  into  books  published 
under  the  titles  of  "Buttered  Side  Down,"  "Dawn  O'Hara," 
"Roast  Beef  Medium,"  and  "Personality  Plus."  These  stories 
are  unified  through  the  two  characters  portrayed,  Dawn  O'Hara 
and  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney.  It  is  probable  that  much  of  her 
own  struggle  and  much  of  her  aspiration  for  women  is  por- 
trayed in  these  two  characters.  She  hopes  to  show  that  women 
may  make  fin  undisputed  place  for  themselves  in  the  profes- 
sional and  business  life. 

The  first  of  these  characters  is  a  young  Irish  woman  who 
has  devoted  her  energies  to  the  mastering  of  the  city  news- 
paper reporter's  work.  Through  the  story  of  Dawn  O'Hara's 
struggles,  Edna  Ferber  has  been  able  to  give  many  interesting 
comments  upon  the  toil  and  thrills  of  this  nerve-racking  work. 
At  the  same  time  she  has  been  able  to  paint  the  struggle  of 
the  young  writer  to  produce  the  first  book,  to  picture  German 
Milwaukee  in  a  most  interesting  manner,  and  to  make  some 
interesting  comments  upon  mutual  helpfulness. 

Emma  McChesney  is  an  example  of  the  extraordinarily  suc- 
cessful busines  woman.  Despite  the  most  discouraging  condi- 
tions, she  works  her  way  from  the  beginning  of  a  firm's  least 
inviting  employment  to  the  complete  management  of  its  affairs. 
All  the  time  she  is  inspired  by  the  desire  to  give  her  son  the 
best  education  and  the  best  start  in  life  and  to  assist  him  to  the 
most  manly  character  possible.  The  author  rewards  Emma 
McChesney  with  the  full  realization  of  her  ambitions. 

Edna  Ferber  was  born  in  Appleton,  Wisconsin.  Her  home 
was  a  humble  one,  but  was  able  to  provide  her  with  the  oppor- 
tunity for  high  school  education  and  a  very  little  work  in  Law- 
rence College.  After  graduating  from  high  school,  she  did 
work  for  the  Appleton  Crescent  in  the  capacity  of  news  collec- 
tor and  reporter.  Through  this  work  she  began  to  realize  her 


164  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

powers  and  at  the  same  time  she  trained  herself  to  that  keen 
observation  of  character  which  constitutes  one  of  the  greatest 
pleasures  in  her  work.  Appleton's  stores,  hotels,  newspapers, 
and  working  life  in  general  became  her  laboratory  in  which  to 
study  the  characteristics,  defects,  and  aspirations  of  human  life 
as  she  finds  it.  As  she  has  achieved  greater  success  in  her 
writing  she  has  widened  her  sphere  of  acquaintanceship  and  of 
helpfulness.  Her  present  home  is  Chicago. 

The  selection  from  her  writings  which  we  are  permitted  to 
give  here  is  chosen  because  it  illustrates  her  style  and  at  the 
same  time  gives  a  vivid  picture  of  one  phase  of  the  life  of  Wis- 
consin's metropolis.  It  is  a  chapter  taken  from  her  book, 
"Dawn  O'Hara,"  and  is  entitled,  "Steeped  in  German." 

STEEPED  IN  GERMAN 

From    "DAWN    O'HARA."     Copyright,    1911,    by    Frederick    Stokes 
Publishing:  Co. 

I  am  living  in  a  little  private  hotel  just  across  from 
the  court  house  square  with  its  scarlet  geraniums  and  its 
pretty  fountain.  The  house  is  filled  with  German  civil 
engineers,  mechanical  engineers,  and  Herr  Professors 
from  the  German  academy.  On  Sunday  mornings  we 
have  Pfannkuchen  with  currant  jelly,  and  the  Herr  Pro- 
fessors come  down  to  breakfast  in  fearful  flappy  German 
slippers.  I'm  the  only  creature  in  the  place  that  isn't 
just  over  from  Germany.  Even  the  dog  is  a  dachshund. 
It  is  so  unbelievable  that  every  day  or  two  I  go  down  to 
Wisconsin  Street  and  gaze  at  the  stars  and  stripes  floating 
from  the  government  building,  in  order  to  convince  my- 
self that  this  is  America.  It  needs  only  a  Kaiser  or  so, 
and  a  bit  of  Unter  den  Linden  to  be  quite  complete. 

The  little  private  hotel  is  kept  by  Herr  and  Frau 
Knapf.  After  one  has  seen  them,  one  quite  understands 
why  the  place  is  steeped  in  a  German  atmosphere  up  to 
the  eyebrows. 

I  never  would  have  founJ  it  myself.  It  was  Doctor 
von  Gerhard  who  had  suggested  Knapf 's  and  who  had 
paved  the  way  for  my  coming  here. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  165 

"You  will  find  it  quite  unlike  anything  you  have  ever 
tried  before,"  he  had  warned  me.  "Very  German  it  is, 
and  very,  very  clean,  and  most  inexpensive.  Also  I  think 
you  will  find  material  there — how  is  it  you  call  it  ? — copy, 
yes?  Well,  there  should  be  copy  in  plenty;  and  types! 
But  you  shall  see." 

From  the  moment  I  rang  the  Knapf  door-bell  I  saw. 
The  dapper,  cheerful  Herr  Knapf,  wearing  a  disappointed 
Kaiser  Wilhelm  mustache,  opened  the  door.  I  scarcely 
had  begun  to  make  my  wishes  known  when  he  inter- 
rupted with  a  large  wave  of  the  hand,  and  an  elaborate 
German  bow. 

"Ach,  yes!  You  would  be  the  lady  of  whom  the  Herr 
Doktor  has  spoken.  Gewiss  Frau  Orme,  not?  But  so 
a  young  lady  I  did  not  expect  to  see.  A  room  we  have 
saved  for  you — aber  wunderhiibsch.  It  makes  me  much 
pleasure  to  show.  Folgen  Sie  mir,  bitte." 

"You — speak  English?"  I  faltered  with  visions  of  my 
evenings  spent  in  expressing  myself  in  the  sign  language. 

"English?  But  yes.  Here  in  Milwaukee  it  gives  aber 
mostly  German.  And  then,  too,  I  have  been  only  twenty 
years  in  this  country.  And  always  in  Milwaukee.  Here 
is  it  gemiitlich — and  mostly  it  gives  German. 

I  tried  not  to  look  frightened,  and  followed  him  up  to 
the — "but  wonderfully  beautful"  room.  To  my  joy  I 
found  it  high-ceilinged,  airy,  and  huge,  with  a  vault  of  a 
clothes  closet  bristling  with  hooks,  and  boasting  an  un- 
believable number  of  shelves.  My  trunk  was  swallowed 
up  in  it.  Never  in  all  my  boarding-house  experience  have 
I  seen  such  a  room  nor  such  a  closet.  The  closet  must 
have  been  built  for  a  bride's  trousseau  in  the  days  of 
hoop-skirts  and  scuttle  bonnets.  There  was  a  separate 
find  distinct  hook  for  each  and  every  one  of  my  most 


166  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

obscure  garments.  I  tried  to  spread  them  out.  I  used 
two  hooks  to  every  petticoat,  and  three  for  my  kimono, 
and  when  I  had  finished  there  were  rows  of  hooks 
to  spare.  Tiers  of  shelves  yawned  for  the  hat-boxes 
which  I  possessed  not.  Bluebeard's  wives  could  have  held 
a  family  reunion  in  that  closet  and  invited  all  of  Solo- 
mon's spouses.  Finally,  in  desperation,  I  gathered  all  my 
poor  garments  together  and  hung  them  in  a  social  bunch 
on  the  hooks  nearest  the  door.  How  I  should  have  loved 
to  show  that  closet  to  a  select  circle  of  New  York 
boarding-house  landladies! 

After  wrestling  in  vain  with  the  forest  of  hooks,  I 
turned  my  attention  to  my  room.  I  yanked  a  towel  thing 
off  the  center  table  and  replaced  it  with  a  scarf  that 
Peter  had  picked  up  in  the  Orient.  I  set  up  my  typewriter 
in  a  corner  near  a  window  and  dug  a  gay  cushion  or  two 
and  a  chafing-dish  out  of  my  trunk.  I  distributed  photo- 
graphs of  Norah  and  Max  and  the  Spalpeens  separately, 
in  couples,  and  in  groups.  Then  I  bounced  up  and  down 
in  a  huge  yellow  brocade  chair  and  found  it  unbelievably 
comfortable.  Of  course,  I  reflected,  after  the  big  veranda, 
and  the  tree  at  Norah 's,  and  the  leather-cushioned  com- 
fort of  her  library,  and  the  charming  tones  of  her 
Oriental  rugs  and  hangings — 

' '  Oh,  stop  your  carping,  Dawn ! "  I  told  myself.  * '  You 
can't  expect  charming  tones  and  Oriental  doo-dads  and 
apple  trees  in  a  German  boarding  house.  Anyhow  there 's 
running  water  in  the  room.  For  general  utility  purposes 
that's  better  than  a  pink  prayer  rug." 

There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  that  it  was  the 
luxuries  that  made  life  worth  living.  That  was  in  the 
old  Bohemian  days. 

11  Necessities!"  I  used  to  laugh,  "Pooh!  Who  cares 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  167 

about  necessities.  What  if  the  dishpan  does  leak?  It  is 
the  luxuries  that  count. ' ' 

Bohemia  and  luxuries!  Half  a  dozen  lean,  boarding- 
house  years  have  steered  me  safely  past  that.  After  such 
a  course  in  common  sense  you  don't  stand  back  and  ex- 
amine the  pictures  of  a  pink  Moses  in  a  nest  of  purple 
bull-rushes,  or  complain  because  the  bureau  does  not 
harmonize  with  the  wall  paper.  Neither  do  you  criticize 
the  blue  and  saffron  roses  that  form  the  rug  pattern. 
'Deedy  not!  Instead  you  warily  punch  the  mattress  to 
see  if  it  is  rock-stuffed,  and  you  snoop  into  the  clothes 
closet;  you  inquire  the  distance  to  the  nearest  bath  room, 
and  whether  the  payments  are  weekly  or  monthly,  and 
if  there  is  a  baby  in  the  room  next  door.  Oh,  there's 
nothing  like  living  in  a  boarding-house  for  cultivating 
the  materialistic  side. 

But  I  was  to  find  that  here  at  Knapf's  things  were 
quite  different.  Not  only  was  Ernest  von  Gerhard  right 
in  saying  it  was  "very  German,  and  very,  very  clean ;" 
he  recognized  good  copy  when  he  saw  it.  Types !  I  never 
dreamed  that  such  faces  existed  outside  of  the  old  German 
woodcuts  that  one  sees  illustrating  time-yellowed  books. 

I  had  thought  myself  hardened  to  strange  boarding- 
house  dining  rooms,  with  their  batteries  of  cold,  critical 
women's  eyes.  I  had  learned  to  walk  unruffled  in  the 
face  of  the  most  carping,  suspicious  and  the  fishiest  of 
these  batteries.  Therefore,  on  my  first  day  at  Knapf's, 
I  went  down  to  dinner  in  the  evening,  quite  composed 
and  secure  in  the  knowledge  that  my  collar  was  clean  and 
that  there  was  no  flaw  to  find  in  the  fit  of  my  skirt  in 
the  back. 

As  I  opened  the  door  of  my  room  I  heard  sounds  as  of 
a  violent  altercation  in  progress  downstairs.  I  leaned 


168  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

over  the  balusters  and  listened.  The  sounds  rose  and 
fell,  swelled  and  boomed.  They  were  German  sounds 
that  started  in  the  throat,  gutturally,  and  spluttered  their 
way  up.  They  were  sounds  such  as  I  had  not  heard 
since  the  night  I  was  sent  to  cover  a  Socialist  meeting  in 
New  York.  I  tip-toed  down  stairs,  although  I  might 
have  fallen  down  and  landed  with  a  thud  without  being 
heard.  The  din  came  from  the  direction  of  the  dining- 
room.  Well,  come  what  might,  I  would  not  falter.  After 
all,  it  could  not  be  worse  than  the  awful  time  when  I 
had  helped  cover  the  teamsters'  strike.  I  peered  into  the 
dining-room. 

The  thunder  of  conversation  went  on  as  before.  But 
there  was  no  blood  shed.  Nothing  but  men  and  women 
sitting  at  small  tables,  eating  and  talking.  When  I  say 
eating  and  talking,  I  do  not  mean  that  those  acts  were 
carried  on  separately.  Not  at  all.  The  eating  and  talk- 
ing went  on  simultaneously,  neither  interrupting  the 
other.  A  fork  full  of  food  and  a  mouthful  of  ten- 
syllabled  German  words  met,  wrestled,  and  passed  one 
another,  unscathed.  I  stood  in  the  doorway,  fascinated 
until  Herr  Knapf  spied  me,  took  a  nimble  skip  in  my 
direction,  twisted  the  discouraged  mustaches  into  tem- 
porary sprightliness,  and  waved  me  toward  a  table  in  the 
center  of  the  room. 

Then  a  frightful  thing  happened.  When  I  think  of  it 
now  I  turn  cold.  The  battery  was  not  that  of  women's 
eyes,  but  that  of  men's.  And  conversation  ceased!  The 
uproar  and  the  booming  of  vowels  was  hushed.  The 
silence  was  appalling.  I  looked  up  in  horror  to  find  that 
what  seemed  to  be  millions  of  staring  blue  eyes  were 
fixed  on  me.  The  stillness  was  so  thick  that  you  could 
cut  :<-  with  a  knife.  Such  men!  Immediately  I  dubbed 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  169 

them  the  aborigines,  and  prayed  that  I  might  find  adjec- 
tives with  which  to  describe  their  foreheads. 

It  appeared  that  the  aborigines  were  especially  favored 
in  that  they  were  all  placed  at  one  long,  untidy  table  at 
the  head  of  the  room.  The  rest  of  us  sat  at  small  tables. 
Later  I  learned  that  they  were  all  engineers.  At  meals 
they  discuss  engineering  problems  in  the  most  awe-inspir- 
ing German.  After  supper  they  smoke  impossible  German 
pipes  and  dozens  of  cigarettes.  They  have  bulging, 
knobby  foreheads  and  bristling  pompadours,  and  some  of 
the  rawest  of  them  wear  wild-lookiMg  beards,  and  thick 
spectacles,  and  cravats  and  trousers  that  Lew  Fields  never 
even  dreamed  of.  They  are  all  graduates  of  high-sounding 
foreign  universities  and  are  horribly  learned  and  brilliant, 
out  they  are  the  worst  mannered  lot  I  ever  saw. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  my  entrance  a  red-cheeked 
maid  approached  me  and  asked  what  I  would  have  for 
supper.  Supper?  I  asked.  Was  not  dinner  served  in 
the  evening?  The  aborigines  nudged  each  other  and 
sniggered  like  fiendish  little  school-boys. 

The  red-cheeked  maid  looked  at  me  pityingly.  Din- 
ner was  served  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  natiirlich.  For 
supper  there  was  Wienerschnitzcl  and  kalter  Aufschnitt, 
also  Kartoffelsalat,  and  fresh  Kaffoekuchen. 

'  The  room  hung  breathless  on  my  decision.  I  wrestled 
with  a  horrible  desire  to  shriek  and  run.  Instead  I 
managed  to  mumble  an  order.  The  aborigines  turned  to 
one  another  inquiringly. 

"Was  hat  sie  gesagt?"  they  asked.  "What  did  she 
say?"  Whereupon  they  fell  to  discussing  my  hair  and 
teeth  and  eyes  and  complexion  in  German  as  crammed 
with  adjectives  as  was  the  rye  bread  over  which  I  was 
choking,  with  caraway.  The  entire  table  watched  me 


170  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

with  wide-eyed,  unabashed  interest  while  I  ate,  and  I 
advanced  by  quick  stages  from  red-faced  confusion  to 
purple  mirth.  It  appeared  that  my  presence  was  the 
ground  for  a  heavy  German  joke  in  connection  with  the 
youngest  of  the  aborigines.  He  was  a  very  plump  and 
greasy  looking  aborigine  with  a  doll-like  rosiness  of  cheek 
and  a  scared  and  bristling  pompadour  and  very  small 
pig-eyes.  The  other  aborigines  clapped  him  on  the  back 
and  roared : 

"Ai  Fritz!  Jetzt  brauchst  du  nicht  zu  weii\en!  Deine 
Lena  war  aber  nicht-so  huebsch,  eh?" 

Later  I  learned  that  Fritz  was  the  newest  arrival  and 
that  since  coming  to  this  country  he  had  been  rather  low 
in  spirits  in  consequence  of  a  certain  flaxen-haired  Lena 
whom  he  had  left  behind  in  the  Fatherland. 

An  examination  of  the  dining  room  and  its  other  occu- 
pants served  to  keep  my  mind  off  the  hateful  long  table. 
The  dining  room  was  a  double  one,  the  floor  carpetless 
and  clean.  There  was  a  little  platform  at  one  end  with 
hawiy-looking  plants  in  pots  near  the  windows.  The 
wall  was  ornamented  with  very  German  pictures  of  very 
plump,  bare-armed  German  girls  being  chucked  under 
the  chin  by  very  dashing  mustachioed  German  lieuten- 
ants. It  was  all  very  bare,  and  strange  and  foreign  to 
my  eyes  and  yet  there  was  something  bright  and  com- 
fortable about  it.  I  felt  that  I  was  going  to  like  it,  abor- 
igines and  all. 

After  my  first  letter  home  Norah  wrote  frantically, 
demanding  to  know  if  I  was  the  only  woman  in  the  house. 
I  calmed  her  fears  by  assuring  her  that,  while  the  men 
were  interesting  and  ugly  with  the  fascinating  ugliness  of 
a  bulldog,  the  women  were  crushed  looking  and  uninter- 
esting and  wore  hopeless  hats.  I  have  written  Norah 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  171 

and  Max  reams  about  this  household,  from  the  aborigines 
to  Minna,  who  tidies  my  room  and  serves  my  meals,  and 
admires  my  clothes.  Minna  is  related  to  Frau  Knapf, 
whom  I  have  never  seen.  Minna  is  inordinately  fond 
of  dress,  and  her  remarks  anent  my  own  garments  are 
apt  to  be  a  trifle  disconcerting,  especially  when  she  inter- 
sperses her  recital  of  dinner  dishes  with  admiring  adjec- 
tives directed  at  my  blouse  or  hat.  Thus: 

"Wir  haben  roast  beef,  und  sparribs  mit  sauerkraut, 
und  schicken — ach  wie  schoen,  Frau  Orme!  Aber  ganz 
pracchtvoll?"  Her  eyes  and  hands  are  raised  toward 
heaven. 

1 '  What 's  prachtf ul  ? "  I  ask,  startled.    ' '  The  chicken  ? '  ' 

"Nein;  your  waist.    Selbst  gemacht?" 

I  am  even  becoming  hardened  to  the  manners  of  the 
aborigines.  It  used  to  fuss  me  to  death  to  meet  one  of 
them  in  the  halls.  They  always  stopped  short,  brought 
heels  together  with  a  click,  bent  stiffly  from  the  waist,  and 
thundered:  "Nabben',  Fraulein!" 

I  have  learned  to  take  the  salutation  quite  calmly,  and 
even  the  wildest,  most  spectacled  and  knobby-browed 
aborigine  cannot  startle  me.  Nonchalantly  I  reply,  "Nab- 
ben  ', '  '  and  wish  Norah  could  but  see  me  in  the  act. 

When  I  told  Ernst  von  Gerhard  about  them,  he 
laughed  a  little  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said : 

"Na,  you  should  not  look  so  young,  and  so  pretty,  and 
so  unmarried.  In  Germany  a  married  woman  brushes 
her  hair  quite  smoothly  back,  and  pins  it  in  a  hard  knob. 
And  she  knows  nothing  of  such  bewildering  collars  and 
fluffy  frilled  things  in  the  front  of  the  blouse.  How  do 
you  call  them — jabots?" 


GEORGE  L.  TEEPLE. 

Mr.  George  L.  Teeple  was  born  In  Champaign,  Illinois,  in 
1864,  and  at  the  age  of  nine  came  to  Whitewater  to  live  with 
his  aunt  and  uncle.  He  was  graduated  from  the  old  "Academic 
Department"  of  the  Whitewater  Normal,  about  which  school 
he  writes  so  charmingly  in  the  sketch  here  given. 

Mr.  Teeple  planned  his  collegiate  career  in  preparation  for 
the  profession  of  engineering.  He  was  graduated  from  Cornell 
University  in  1889,  and  was  engaged  in  active  engineering 
work  and  instruct ural  duties  in  this  line  until  1895.  But  at 
this  time  he  felt  the  call  to  the  field  of  English,  and  he  gave 
special  study  to  this  subject  for  two  years  at  Harvard.  From 
1897  to  1899  he  was  instructor  in  English  In  the  State  Normal 
School  at  Stevens  Point,  but  at  this  time  the  demands  of  his 
health  made  it  necessary  that  he  resume  active  outdoor  work, 
so.  since  the  latter  date,  he  has  been  more  or  less  closely  identi- 
fied with  his  first-chosen  profession.  But  in  all  these  years  he 
has  never  lost  his  interest  in  creative  literary  activities.  He 
writes  very  slowly  and  carefully,  with  Infinite  pains  and  almost 
endless  revision.  His  work,  as  represented  In  "The  Battle  of 
Gray's  Pasture."  fully  repays  his  effort,  for,  though  the  phrases 
seem  to  have  come  easily  and  readily,  they  show  the  fitness  and 
grace  that  are  the  result  of  no  other  thing  than  rigorous  care. 

His  home  is  in  Whitewater,  which,  as  will  be  noted,  has 
sheltered  many  Wisconsin  writers,  notably  President  Albert 
Salisbury  and  Dr.  Rollin  Salisbury,  George  Steele  and  Julius 
Biree.  The  selection  here  given  is  an  account  of  a  real  football 
battle.  But  "Gray's  Pasture"  has  now  been  transformed  into 
a  modern  athletic  field,  and  the  "spreading  oak"  has  been 
replaced  by  a  concrete  grandstand. 


THE  BATTLE  OP  GRAY'S  PASTURE 

From  the  Century  Magazine,  September,  1903. 
*      •      *      *      * 

You  will  find  no  such  " Normalities "  nowadays.  The 
old  breed  is  gone.  The  greenest  T  see  look  quite  correct 
and  starched  and  tailor-made.  No  originality  of  costume 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  173 

now.  No  "high-water  pants,"  such  as  refreshed  the  eye 
in  the  old  days.  No  pitifully  insufficient  coat,  stretching 
its  seams  across  some  great  fellow's  back,  button  strug- 
gling with  buttonhole  to  hold  in  his  expanding  chest, 
showing  by  its  very  insufficiency  what  a  Hercules  he  was. 
You  will  see  none  of  these  now.  They  have  disappeared ; 

the  old  sap  and  individuality  quite,  quite  gone. 

***** 

There  is  no  such  spirit  in  the  school  today.  They  have 
a  football  eleven,  it  is  true,  and  it  holds  its  head  well  up 
among  its  mates ;  a  little  above  'em,  too,  most  of  the  time ; 
the  old  school's  the  old  school  yet,  I  tell  'em;  but,  after 
all,  it  isn't  the  old  game,  nor  the  old  spirit.  I  go  out 
sometimes  to  watch  them,  and  think:  "Well,  it's  a  queer 
game  they  play  now,  and  call  football!"  They  trot  out 
in  such  astonishing  toggery;  padded  and  guarded  from 
shin  to  crown — welted,  belted,  strapped,  and  buckled 
beyond  recognition.  And  there's  no  independence  in  the 
play;  every  move  has  to  be  told  'em.  It's  as  if  they 
weren't  big  enough  to  run  alone;  and  so  they  hire  a  big 
stepmother  of  a  university  "coach,"  who  stands  around 
in  a  red  sweater,  and  yells,  and'berates  them.  Not  a  man 
answers  back;  he  doesn't  dare  to.  They  don't  dare  eat 
plain,  Christian  food,  but  have  a  "training  table,"  and 
diet  like  invalids.  I've  seen  'em  at  a  game  not  dare  to  take 
a  plain  drink  of  water;  when  they  got  thirsty  they 
sucked  at  a  wet  sponge,  like  babes  at  the  bottle ! 

It  was  not  so  in  our  day.  No  apron  strings  of  a  uni- 
versity coach  were  tied  to  us.  We  were  free-born  men. 
When  we  wanted  to  play  we  got  together  and  went  down 
to  the  old  pasture,  to  the  big  oak  tree  that  stood  near  the 
middle  of  it;  and  there  we  would  "choose  up,"  and  take 
off  our  coats  and  vests  and  neckgear,  and  pile  them  round 


174  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

the  oak,  and  walk  out  on  the  field  and  go  at  it — everybody 
—not  a  pitiful  dozen  or  so,  while  the  rest  stood  with 
their  hands  in  their  pockets  and  looked  on — but  everybody  I 
And  it  was  football:  no  playing  half  an  hour  without 
seeing  the  ball  in  the  air  once;  we  kicked  it  all  the 
time — except  when  we  missed  it,  and  then  we  kicked  the 
other  fellow 's  shins !  And  when  we  got  thirsty  we  went 
down  to  the  spring  and  took  an  honest  drink  out  of  an 
honest  tin  cup. 

And  what  a  fine,  free,  open  game  it  was — the  old 
game!  What  art  you  could  put  into  its  punting,  and 
running,  and  dodging,  and  creeping,  and  drop-kicking! 
And  what  a  glorious  tumult  in  the  old-fashioned  scrim- 
mage, especially  the  scrimmages  in  the  old  ditch.  It  was 
a  rather  broad  and  shallow  ditch,  and  into  it  the  ball 
would  often  roll,  a  dozen  excited  fellows  dashing  after  it ; 
and  there  in  the  ditch  bottom,  in  mad  melee,  frantic  foot 
to  foot,  naked  shin  against  sole  leather,  we  would  fight  to 
drive  the  ball  through  the  opposing  mob.  There  might 
the  rustic  Normalite,  with  implacable  cowhides,  the  big- 
ger now  the  better,  sweeten  his  humiliation  with  revenge, 
and  well  I  remember  the  fearful  devastation  he  sometimes 
wrought  among  our  Academic  shins ! 

But  we  were  used  to  that.  Indeed,  we  youngsters 
gloried  in  it.  It  was  a  spot  upon  your  honor  not  to  have 
a  spot  upon  your  shin.  We  compared  them  as  soldiers 
brag  of  their  wounds  in  battle,  and  he  who  could  exhibit 
the  largest  and  most  lurid  specimen  was  the  best  man. 
Those  discolored  patches  were  our  "V.  C.'s"  and  "Crosses 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor";  seals  attesting  our  spirit, 
stamped  with  a  stamp  of  good,  stiff  sole  leather,  painfully 
enough,  it  was  true,  but  who  cared  for  that?  We  were 
only  sorry  we  could  not  exhibit  them  in  public.  To  be 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  175 

obliged  to  carry  such  decorations  under  your  trouser  leg 

was  hard. 

*     *     *     #     * 

Football  Night  at  the  "Lineolnian  Literary,"  and 
Laury  Thompson's  speech  there  I  must  tell  about.  If 
any  of  the  old  boys  ever  read  this — and  it  is  for  them  I 
am  writing  it — they  will  wonder  if  I  leave  that  out.  For 
it  marked  an  epoch  in  the  Normal  preparation  for  the 
game.  And  coming  from  Laury  Thompson  it  was  so  un- 
expected. He  always  looked  so  cheerful  in  his  high-water 
pants.  His  clothes  were  such  a  harmonious  misfit.  And 
he  got  off  his  absurdities  with  such  a  grave,  humorous- 
innocent  face;  only  the  veiled  twinkling  in  the  eyes  to 
show  that  it  was  not  the  most  solemn  matter  in  the  world. 

He  "wore  his  pants  high-water  a-purpose,"  he  told  us; 
"had  'em  made  so  for  hot  weather;  coolin',  ye  know;  re- 
freshin';  lets  the  air  in;  breeze  of  heaven  playin*  up  and 
down  your  pant-leg."  And  when  one  of  the  boys  cracked 
some  joke  on  his  big  shoes,  he  gravely  remonstrated,  as- 
suring us  that  he  "had  those  shoes  made  sort  of  in 
memoriam-  hide  of  a  heifer  calf  of  his'n  that  got  killed 
by  the  cars :  a  rosebud  of  a  little  critter ;  he  kind  o '  wanted 
something  to  remember  her  by;  tarnation  good  leather, 
too."  He  had  "writ  a  poem"  on  that  calf,  he  said,  but 
refused  to  recite  it;  "felt  delikit  about  exposin'  his 
feelin's." 

The  old  Lincolnian  Literary  Society  is  dead  now,  and 
its  room  has  been  turned  into  a  shop  for  the  Manual 
Training  Department.  It  is  a  long,  narrow  room  on  the 
third  floor,  and  was  crowded  that  night  to  the  very  door. 
The  meeting,  called  "to  rouse  public  spirit  in  the  matter 
of  the  coming  game,"  grew  spirited  and  hilarious  as  the 
speaking  proceeded,  and  when  Thompson  was  called  on, 


176  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

and  his  tall,  odd  figure  rose  up  in  the  midst,  there  was 
great  thundering  of  boots  along  the  floor. 

"Boys,"  he  began,  "our  Academic  friends,  raised, 
most  of  'em,  in  this  proud  metropolis,  seem  to  V  got  the 
notion  that  because  we  haven't  just  stepped  out  of  a 
fashion  plate  we  can't  play  football.  They  tell  us  to 
'thrash  the  hayseed  out  of  our  hair,'  and  to  'slack  off 
on  our  galluses,  and  see  if  we  can't  get  some  o'  that 
high- water  out  of  our  pants;'  they've  been  'tryin'  to 
figure  out  our  combined  acreage  o'  boot  leather,'  they  say, 
'and  had  to  give  it  up;  Arabic  notation  wa'n't  equal 
to  it.' 

"Well,  let  'em  laugh.  I  reckon  we're  duck-backed 
enough  to  shed  whole  showers  o'  that  kind  o'  stuff; 
and  when  the  game  comes  off  they'll  find  that  what  wins 
a  game  o'  football  ain't  pants,  nor  hair,  nor  shoe-leather, 
but  what's  in  and  under  'em.  They'll  find  men's  feet 
in  those  shoes,  and  men's  legs  in  those  trousers,  and 
the  brains  o'  men  under  that  hair! 

"For  I  tell  you,  we're  goin'  to  win  that  game;  and 
we're  goin'  to  win  it  just  because  o'  what  gave  us  the 
hayseed  an '  the  high-water  and  the  boot-leather ;  because 
we've  got  on  our  side  the  men  with  muscle  hardened  on 
the  old  farm ;  men  who've  swung  an  axe  from  mornin'  till 
night  in  the  wood-lot,  and  cradled  two  acres  of  oats  a 
day,  and  who'll  go  through  'em  in  a  scrimmage  like 
steers  through  standin'  corn! 

"Yes,  boys,  it's  true;  we're  'hayseeds'  and  'country 
jakes.'  All  the  better  for  that.  Grass  don't  grow  down, 
and  go  where  you  will,  you'll  find  the  hayseed  at  the  top. 
Why,  what  was  he?"— he  turned  and  extended  a  long  arm 
and  forefinger  toward  a  picture  of  Daniel  Webster  that 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  177 

hung  behind  him  on  the  wall  of  the  room, — "what  was  he? 
A  hayseed,  and  son  of  a  hayseed!" 

Yes,  there's  a  hayseed  in  our  hair; 

Proud  it's  there! 
And  our  boots  are  big  an'  square; 

So  they  air! 

And  when  you  hear  'em  thunderin' 
On  the  Academic  shin, 
Back  them  cowhide  boots  to  win! 

Academe,  beware! 

Hooray  then  for  hayseed  hair! 

It  gits  there! 
And  for  cowhides  big  and  square; 

Every  pair! 

And  when  you  hear  'em  thunderin' 
On  the  Academic  shin, 
Back  them  cowhide  boots  to  win! 

Academe,  take  care! 
***** 

But  the  morning  of  the  great  day  came  with  a  broad, 
red  sun  rolling  and  tumbling  in  mist,  which  blew  away 

with  rising  wind  and  let  the  sun  in  to  dry  the  field. 

***** 

And  we  were  the  heroes;  the  great  observed  of  all 
observers.  We  trod  the  earth  with  a  large,  heroic  tread. 
I,  the  smallest,  last,  and  youngest  of  the  company,  walked 
with  the  lordiest  stride  of  all.  The  season  long  I  had 
fought  for  a  "place  on  the  team,"  and  I  had  won,  and 
Annie  was  there  to  see.  Never  mind  who  Annie  was. 
I  am  telling  now  about  a  football  team. 

"Look  at  Banty,  here,"  I  heard  a  Normalite  say, 
"captain  o'  the  team,  ain't  he?  Hull  thing,  an'  dog  under 
the  wagon." 

Even  Annie  smiled,  and  just  then  my  cousin  Teddy 
came  up. 


178       .          WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

"What  are  you  lookin'  so  red  an'  savage  about?" 
says  Teddy. 

"Achin*  to  jump  into  that  Normal  team,"  says  I. 

Under  the  big  oak  Rob  Mackenzie  and  Tom  Powell, 
with  the  big  fellows  around  them,  were  settling  the  last 
preliminaries.  The  referee  pitched  the  coin. 

"Heads   it   is,"   called   Tom   quietly.     "We'll   take 
the  north  goal."     The  wind  by  this  time  was  stiff  out 
of  the  north,  and  the  Normals  had  won  the  toss. 
***** 

Now,  too,  we  saw  the  meaning  of  the  mysterious 
practice  in  Normal  Hall.  Along  the  lower  edge  of  the 
pasture,  and  forming  the  eastern  side-line,  there  ran 
a  "tight  board"  fence,  and  next  it,  the  entire  length  of 
the  pasture,  the  shallow  ditch  I  have  already  spoken  of. 
In  that  ditch  we  used  to  fight  half  of  our  scrimmages,  and 
in  that  ditch  the  Normals  concentrated  their  strategy  and 
strength.  In  massive  formation,  the  ball  in  the  midst, 
protected  by  the  fence  on  one  side  and  by  a  moving 
stockade  of  stout  legs  and  sturdy  shoulders  on  the  other, 
down  the  ditch  they  would  drive,  sweeping  away  our 
lighter  fellows  like  leaves  as  they  went,  on  and  on,  to  what 
seemed  an  inevitable  goal. 

But  right  there  the  weakness  of  the  play  developed. 
The  goal  posts  stood,  as  in  the  modern  game,  midway 
the  ends  of  the  field.  No  "touch-downs"  counted,  only 
goals ;  and  to  make  a  goal  .they  must  leave  their  ditch 
and  protecting  fence  and  come  out  into  the  open.  And 
there  Rob  Mackenzie  gathered  his  heavy  men  for  the 
defense.  With  Whitty,  and  Nic,  and  Jim  Greening,  and 
the  others,  he  would  ram  the  Normal  formation  until  it 
broke;  then  unless  someone  had  done  it  before  him,  he 
would  go  in  himself,  capture  the  ball,  and  with  Whitty, 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  179 

his  team-mate,  rush   away  with  it  toward  the  Normal 

goal. 

***** 

The  second  half  began,  and  the  Normal  pace  grew 
faster.  Those  endurin'  muscles,  ''hardened  on  the  old 
farm/'  that  "had  cradled  two  acres  of  oats  a  day,  day 
in  day  out,  under  the  July  sun, ' '  were  beginning  to  tell. 
Like  a  sledge-hammer  at  a  shaking  door  the  Normal 
formation  pounded  at  our  defence.  When  the  door  should 
fall  seemed  but  a  matter  of  time.  The  Normalite  roar 
along  the  side-line  grew  louder.  Again  and  again,  while 
the  scrimmage  thickened,  with  John  Hicks  and  Scott  and 
Simpson  hurling  into  it,  would  burst  out  their  thundering 
refrain : 

Hooray  for  our  hayseed  hair; 

It  gits  there! 
An'  our  boots  so  big  an'  square; 

Every  pair! 

And  when  you  hear  'em  thunderin' 
On  the  Academic  shin, 
Back  them  cowhide  boots  to  win! 
Academs,  beware! 

And  only  for  Rob  Mackenzie  we  should  again  and 
again  have  gone  down.  How  through  our  darkening  for- 
tunes shone  the  unconquerable  spirit  and  energy  of  his 
play!  Like  that  kind  of  ancient  Bedouins  who,  "when 
Evil  bared  before  them  his  hindmost  teeth,  flew  gaily  to 
meet  him,  in  company  or  alone ! ' '  Again  and  again  the 
Normal  formation  rolled  along  the  ditch  sweeping  our 
out-fighters  before  it,  and  again  and  again,  as  it  reached 
the  critical  point  and  swung  out  into  the  field  to  make 
the  goal,  would  Rob  hurl  against  it  his  heavy  attack, — 
Whitty,  and  Rhodes,  and  Limp,  and  Jim  Greening,  and 
big  Nic,  and  finally  himself, — till  the  Normal  mass  went 


180  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

into  chaos ;  out  of  which,  through  some  unguarded  gap, 
the  ball  would  come  tumbling,  Rob  and  Whitty  behind 
it;  then  down  the  field  together  they  would  dart,  the 
ball  before  them,  we  youngsters  yelling  madly  in  the 
rear,  the  battle-fire  in  us,  which  had  flagged  with  fear, 
bursting  up  again  in  yells  of  exultation  like  a  flame. 

Yet  not  to  score ;  again  neither  side  could  score.  The 
second  half  approached  its  end,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
game  would  remain  a  tie.  As  the  two  sides  suddenly 
realized  this,  there  came,  as  if  by  common  consent,  a 
pause.  The  Babel-roar  along  the  side-line  dropped  into 
a  hum.  Then  a  voice  called  out, — it  was  Tom  Powell; 
you  could  hear  him  all  over  the  field : 

"How  much  more  time?" 

And  the  answer  came  clear  and  clean-cut  through 
the  dead  silence: 

"One  minute  and  a  half!" 

The  Academics  yelled  with  joy ;  no  hope  now  of  win- 
ning, but  in  so  short  a  time  the  Normals  cannot  score; 
we  escape  defeat;  it  will  be  a  drawn  battle.  Then  they 
stilled  again,  not  so  sure. 

For  the  Normal  "sledge-hammer'*  was  uplifting  for 
a  last  blow.  One  chance  remained,  and  Tom  Powell 
staked  all  on  a  final  cast.  He  left  only  Van  Lone  to 
guard  his  goal.  Every  other  man  of  his  team  he  would 
build  into  the  breaks  of  his  formation  in  a  last  determined 
attack.  Wave  after  wave  he  had  hurled  against  us ;  now 
this  last,  "a  ninth  one,  gathering  all  the  deep,"  he  would 
hurl. 

The  attack  came  on,  and  our  out-fighters  as  usual  went 
down  before  it.  In  practically  perfect  order,  with  Simp- 
son and  John  Hicks  in  flank,  and  Tom  Powell  himself  at 
the  centre,  it  turned  out  of  the  ditch  for  the  goal.  Whitty 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  181 

and  Jim  Greening  went  down ;  then  big  Nic.  The  Normal 
uproar  gathered  and  swelled  and  burst,  and  swelled  and 
burst  again  as  they  swept  on.  In  front,  Rob  Mackenzie, 
with  a  last  handful,  stood  yet.  He  spoke  a  fewr  low,  sharp 
words,  and  they  went  forward,  not  in  mass,  but  in  line. 

The  cooler  heads  looked  and  wondered.  What  did  it 
mean?  What  could  a  thin  line  do  against  that  massive- 
moving  squad  of  men?  but  just  wrap  round  it  like  a 
shred  of  twine,  and  like  twine  again,  break,  while  the  mass 
swept  on. 

So  the  line  moved  forward;  but  just  as  it  was  on 
point  to  strike,  it  stumbled  apparently,  the  whole  line 
together,  and  went  down.  The  Normal  yell  rose  again. 
But  it  rose  too  soon ;  the  line  was  not  down,  but  crouch- 
ing there,  a  barricade  across  the  Normal  path.  The  stroke 
of  strategy  was  too  sudden  to  be  met.  Driven  on  by  its 
very  mass  and  the  blind  momentum  of  the  men  in  the 
rear,  the  Normal  formation  struck  our  crouching  line, 
toppled  momentarily,  as  a  wave  topples  over  a  wall  of 
rock;  then,  self-destroying,  its  van  tumbling  over  the 
Academic  line,  its  rear  plunging  on  over  its  broken  front, 
it  crumbled,  broke,  and  stopped. 

Then,  while  the  Academics  along  the  side-line  went 
mad  with  exultation,  the  fallen  chaos  struggled  to  its 
feet,  a  wilder  chaos  than  ever,  a  score  of  boots  slamming 
for  the  ball  at  once,  which  bounded  back  and  forth  like 
a  big  leathern  shuttlecock  in  the  midst. 

So,  for  a  long-drawn  moment,  then  it  leaped  out  clear 
and  free,  and  a  player  after  it  like  a  cannon-flash,  down 
the  field  toward  the  Normal  goal.  Well  may  the  Academics 
yell!  It  is  Rob  Mackenzie, — fastest  man  on  the  ground, 
and  away  now  with  a  free  field!  Hard  after  him  John 
Hicks,  with  every  sinew  at  the  stretch,  and  teeth  grim- 


182  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

set,  and  the  whole  Normal  team  streaming  in  a  wild  tail 
of  pursuit  behind.  The  side-line,  which,  until  now,  had 
held  the  surge  of  spectators,  burst  like  a  dam  in  flood, 
and  poured  a  yelling  torrent  toward  the  Normal  goal. 

There  stood  big  Van  Lone,  sole  guardian  bulldog  at 
that  gate ;  an  honest  bulldog,  but  terribly  bewildered,  all 
pandemonium  storming  in  on  him  at  once.  He  started 
forward,  but  what  could  he  do  against  Rob  Mackenzie? 
The  ball  rises  over  his  head,  hovers  an  instant  at  top 
flight,  or  seems  to ;  then  shoots  forward  between  the  goal 
posts.  The  game  was  won ! 

And  who  that  was  there  will  ever  forget  the  celebra- 
tion that  followed?  Rob  Mackenzie  tossed  skyward  on 
a  hundred  shoulders,  with  mighty  shouts,  till  the  old  pas- 
ture rocked  and  swam;  the  great,  ruddy  face  of  John 
Hicks,  shining  through  the  press,  undimmed  by  defeat, 
as  he  came  to  greet  his  victorious  foe;  the  meeting  and 
hand-grasp  of  the  two  heroes,  amid  tremendous  tumult, 
all  lesser  yells  upborne  on  the  oceanic  roar  of  Nic;  the 
wild  processional  through  the  town,  tramping  tumultuous 
to  the  roar  of  John  Brown's  Body,  with  Rob  in  triumphal 
chariot,  rolling  on  down  Main  Street  toward  the  west, 
where  the  clouds  of  sunset  flamed  into  bonfires  and  the 
firey  sun  itself  seemed  a  huge  cannon's  mouth  hurling  a 
thunder  salute  in  honor  of  the  event. 

Well,  all  that  happened  years  ago.  Those  old  days 
can  never  come  back.  Even  the  old  pasture  I  cannot  see 
as  I  saw  it  then.  It  was  only  the  other  day,  drawn  by 
old  thoughts  revived,  that  I  walked  out  to  see  it,  through 
the  still  summer  afternoon,  down  the  old  familiar  road, 
so  well  known  but  so  strangely  quiet  now,  with  its  few 
scattered  old  white  oaks  and  maples,  that  seem  to  nod 
sleepily  in  a  kind  of  old  friendliness,  till  you  come  to  the 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  183 

turn  by  the  burr  oak  grove  where  the  pasture  opens. 

There  they  lay> — the  long,  tranquil  slope,  the  green 
level  that  had  been  one  field,  the  ditch  along  the  fence, — 
under  the  quiet  sunshine,  in  sleep  and  silence.  Great, 
peaceful-looking  white  clouds,  like  great  white  cattle 
asleep,  lay  along  the  blue  heaven  overhead.  The  old  oak 
where  we  were  used  to  choose  up  stood  motionless,  as  if  it 
dreamed  over  the  old  days.  Could  this  be  indeed  the  old 
pasture,  scene  of  our  stormy  uproar,  this  field  asleep?  I 
turned  away  with  a  half  lonely  feeling. 

The  old  boys  are  gone,  too,  most  of  them,  scattered  I 
don't  know  where.  Do  they  ever,  I  wonder,  after  the 
day's  work  is  done,  sit  in  the  evening  by  the  warm  fire- 
light, while  the  soft  pipe-smoke  wraps  them  in  its  tranquil 
cloud,  and  dream  foolishly,  as  I  do,  over  those  old  days? 
I  like  to  think  they  do. 


GEORGE  BYRON  MERRICK 

The  editors  of  this  volume  have  been  struck  many  times 
with  the  element  of  grouping  that  seems  to  have  asserted  itself 
in  Wisconsin  literary  efforts,  as  in  those  of  America,  or  Eng- 
land, or  perhaps  any  country.  Centers  seem  to  be  formed  from 
which  radiate  light  and  glow  of  literary  activities.  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  was  the  great  literary  center  of  our  country  in 
the  middle  fifty  years  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  Lake 
Region  was  such  a  center  for  English  production  in  the  pre- 
ceding fifty  years.  In  Wisconsin,  naturally  enough,  the  Univer- 
sity has  been  the  fountain  from  which  has  flowed  much  that  is 
most  worth-while  in  the  literature  of  our  state.  It  should  be 
noted  that  not  only  those  who  are  formally  grouped  here  with 
the  University  as  their  center  may  Justly  be  thought  to  be 
vitally  indebted  to  that  institution  for  the  impulse  to  write. 
Among  the  authors  first  mentioned  in  this  book,  John  Muir, 
Zona  Gale.  Mrs.  Willsie,  and  Professor  Sanford  all  were  stu- 
dents at  the  University,  and  no  doubt  were  profoundly  influ- 
enced by  their  Alma  Mater. 

The  next  most  important  source  of  inspiration  to  our 
authors  seems  to  have  been  our  rivers.  The  beautiful  bluffs 
bordering  the  Mississippi:  the  charm  and  grace  of  the  sweeping 
lines  of  Lake  Pepin;  the  tumbling,  rushing  waters  of  the  Wis- 
consin, with  their  thickly-wooded  hills  and  their  green  slopes 
of  prairie  and  their  October  sunsets,  seen  through  crimson  oak 
and  maple  leaves:  or  the  numerous  falls  of  the  upper  Fox, — 
all  have  stirred  the  hearts  of  the  fortunate  people  privileged 
to  live  within  their  influence.  Hence,  at  Stevens  Point,  La 
Crosse,  Appleton.  and  a  few  other  cities  in  the  state  with  sim- 
ilar surroundings,  we  have  a  literature  with  charming  local 
flavor. 

Elsewhere  we  quote  Mr.  Howard  M.  Jones's  "When  Shall 
We  Together,"  which  faithfully  depicts  the  "river  feeling"  of 
those  who  love  the  Father  of  Waters. 

We  desire  to  acquaint  our  readers,  at  this  point,  however, 
w.ith  a  brief  excerpt  from  what  is  perhaps  the  most  careful  and 
faithful  depiction  of  the  Mississippi  itself, — Mr.  Merrick's  "Old 
Times  on  the  Upper  Mississippi."  The  author  lived  for  many 
years  amid  the  scenes  that  he  depicts,  and  for  nine  years  was 
a  pilot  on  an  upper  Mississippi  boat.  The  romance  and  adven- 
ture of  that  life  helped  more  to  rouse  and  challenge  the  im- 
agination than  any  other  single  feature  of  early  pioneer  days, 
and  Mr.  Merrick,  though  now  what  many  would  consider  "pret- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  185 

ty  well  along  in  years,"  is  still  young  enough  in  the  remem- 
brance of  those  days.  Like  many  another  hard-working  pio- 
neer, he  caught  the  spirit  of  his  work,  and  he  here  has  faith- 
fully set  down  the  most  careful  record  of  river  annals  in 
existence,  'from  a  historical  standpoint,  and  at  the  same  time 
one  which  grips  the  interest  of  the  reader. 

OLD  TIMES  ON  THE  UPPER  MISSISSIPPI 

The  recollections  of  a  steamboat  pilot  from  1854  to  1863,  by  George 
Byron  Merrick.  Copyright,  1909,  by  the  author.  From  Chap- 
ter XXX,  pp.  241-247. 

I  knew  that  I  had  not  yet  been  weaned  from  the 
spokes,  and  doubted  if  I  ever  should  be.  I  said  that  I 
would  try,  and  I  did.  I  filed  an  application  for  the  first 
leave  of  absence  I  had  ever  asked  for  from  the  railroad 
company,  and  it  was  granted.  I  found  a  man  to  assist 
the  " devil"  in  getting  out  my  paper,  he  doing  the  editing 
for  pure  love  of  editing,  if  not  from  love  of  the  editor. 
We  set  our  house  in  order,  packed  our  trunk  and  grips, 
and  when  the  specified  fortnight  was  ended,  we  (my  wife, 
my  daughter,  and  myself)  were  comfortably  bestowed  in 
adjoining  staterooms  in  the  ladies'  cabin  of  the  "Mary 
Morton,"  and  I  was  fidgeting  about  the  boat,  watching 
men  "do  things"  as  I  had  been  taught,  or  had  seen  others 
do,  twenty  years  ago  or  more. 

The  big  Irish  mate  bullied  his  crew  of  forty  "niggers," 
driving  them  with  familiar  oaths,  to  redoubled  efforts  in 
getting  in  the  "last"  packages  of  freight,  which  never 
reached  the  last.  Among  the  rest,  in  that  half  hour,  I 
saw  barrels  of  mess  pork — a  whole  car  load  of  it,  which 
the  "nigger"  engine  was  striking  down  into  the  hold. 
Shades  of  Abraham !  pork  out  of  St.  Paul !  Twenty  years 
before,  I  had  checked  out  a  whole  barge  load  (three  hun- 
dred barrels)  through  from  Cincinnati,  by  way  of  Cairo. 
Cincinnati  was  the  great  porkopolis  of  the  world,  while 
Chicago  was  yet  keeping  its  pigs  in  each  back  yard,  and 


186  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

every  freeholder  "made"  his  own  winter's  supply  of 
pork  for  himself.  The  steward  in  charge  of  the  baggage 
was  always  in  the  way  with  a  big  trunk  on  the  gangway, 
just  as  of  old.  The  engineers  were  trying  their  steam, 
and  slowly  turning  the  wheel  over,  with  the  waste  cocks 
open,  to  clear  the  cylinders  of  water.  The  firemen  were 
coaxing  the  beds  of  coal  into  the  fiercer  heats.  The  chief 
clerk  compared  the  tickets  which  were  presented  by  hur- 
rying passengers  with  the  reservation  sheet,  and  assigned 
rooms,  all  "the  best,"  to  others  who  had  no  reservations. 
The  "mud"  clerk  checked  his  barrels  and  boxes  and 
scribbled  his  name  fiercely  and  with  many  flourishes  to 
the  last  receipts.  The  pilot  on  watch,  Mr.  Burns,  sat  on 
the  window  ledge  in  the  pilot  house,  and  waited.  The  cap- 
tain stood  by  the  big  bell,  and  listened  for  the  "All  ready, 
Sir ! "  of  the  mate.  As  the  words  were  spoken,  the  great 
bell  boomed  out  one  stroke,  the  lines  slacked  away  and 
were  thrown  off  the  snubbing  posts.  A  wave  of  the  cap- 
tain 's  hand,  a  pull  at  once  of  the  knobs  of  the  wheel- 
frame,  the  jingle  of  a  bell  far  below,  the  shiver  of  the 
boat  as  the  great  wheel  began  its  work,  and  the  bow  of 
the  "Mary  Morton"  swung  to  the  south;  a  couple  of 
pulls  at  the  bell-rope,  and  the  wheel  was  revolving  ahead ; 
in  a  minute  more  the  escape  pipes  told  us  that  she  was 
"hooked  up,"  and  with  full  steam  ahead  we  were  on  our 
way  to  St.  Louis.  And  I  was  again  in  the  pilot  house 
with  my  old  chief,  who  bade  me  "show  us  what  sort  of 
an  education  you  had  when  a  youngster." 

Despite  my  forty  years  I  was  a  boy  again,  and  Tom 
Burns  was  the  critical  chief,  sitting  back  on  the  bench 
with  his  pipe  alight,  a  comical  smile  oozing  out  of  the 
corners  of  mouth  and  eyes,  for  all  the  world  like  the 
teacher  of  old. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  187 

The  very  first  minute  I  met  the  swing  of  the  gang- 
plank derrick  (there  is  no  jack  staff  on  the  modern  steam- 
boat, more's  the  pity),  with  two  or  three  strokes  when  one 
would  have  been  a  plenty,  yawing  the  boat  around  ''like 
a  toad  in  a  hailstorm, "  as  I  was  advised.  I  could  feel 
the  hot  blood  rushing  to  my  cheeks,  just  as  it  did  twenty 
years  before  under  similar  provocation,  when  the  eye  of 
the  master  was  upon  me.  I  turned  around  and  found  that 
Mr.  Burns  had  taken  it  in,  and  we  both  laughed  like  boys 
—as  I  fancy  both  of  us  were  for  the  time. 

But  I  got  used  to  it  very  soon,  getting  the  "feel  of 
it,"  and  as  the  "Mary  Morton "  steered  like  a  daisy  I 
lined  out  a  very  respectable  wake ;  though  Tom  tried  to 
puzzle  me  a  good  deal  with  questions  as  to  the  landmarks, 
most  of  which  I  had  forgotten  save  in  a  general 
way.  *  *  * 

A  mile  or  two  below  Hastings  I  saw  the  "break"  on 
the  surface  of  the  water  which  marked  the  resting-place 
of  the  "Fanny  Harris,"  on  which  I  had  spent  so  many 
months  of  hard  work,  but  which,  looked  back  upon 
through  the  haze  of  twenty  years,  now  seemed  to  have 
been  nothing  but  holiday  excursions. 

At  Prescott  I  looked  on  the  familiar  water  front,  and 
into  the  attic  windows  where  with  my  brother  I  had  so 
often  in  the  night  watches  studied  the  characteristics  of 
boats  landing  at  the  levee.  Going  ashore  I  met  many 
old-time  friends,  among  whom  was  Charles  Barnes,  agent 
of  the  Diamond  Jo  Line,  who  had  occupied  the  same 
office  on  the  levee  since  1858,  and  had -met  every  steam 
boat  touching  the  landing  during  all  those  years.  He 
was  the  Nestor  of  the  profession,  and  was  one  of  the  very 
few  agents  still  doing  business  on  the  water  front  who 
had  begun  such  work  prior  to  1860.  Since  then,  within 


188  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

a  few  years  past,  he  also  has  gone,  and  that  by  an  acci- 
dent, while  still  in  the  performance  of  duties  connected 
with  the  steamboat  business. 

Dropping  rapidly  down  the  river,  we  passed  Diamond 
Bluff  without  stopping,  but  rounded  to  at  Red  Wing  for 
passengers  and  freight,  and  afterward  headed  into  a  big 
sea  on  Lake  Pepin,  kicked  up  by  the  high  south  wind  that 
was  still  blowing.  We  landed  under  the  lee  of  the  sand- 
pit at  Lake  City,  and  after  getting  away  spent  the  better 
part  of  an  hour  in  picking  up  a  barge  load  of  wheat,  that 
was  anchored  out  in  the  lake.  *  *  * 

I  turned  in  at  an  early  hour,  and  lay  in  the  upper 
berth,  listening  to  the  cinders  skating  over  the  roof  a 
couple  of  feet  above  my  face,  and  translating  the  familiar 
sounds  that  reached  me  from  the  engine-room  and  roof — 
the  call  for  the  draw  at  the  railroad  bridge,  below  the 
landing;  the  signal  for  landing  at  Wabasha;  the  slow 
bell,  the  stopping-bell,  the  backing  bell,  and  a  dozen  or 
twenty  unclassified  bells,  before  the  landing  was  fully 
accomplished;  the  engineer  trying  the  water  in  the 
boilers;  the  rattle  of  the  slice-bars  on  the  sides  of  the 
furnace  doors  as  the  firemen  trimmed  their  fires ;  and  one 
new  and  unfamiliar  sound  from  the  engine-room — the 
rapid  exhaust  of  the  little  engine  driving  the  electric 
generator,  the  only  intruder  among  the  otherwise  familiar 
noises,  all  of  which  came  to  my  sleepy  senses  as  a  lullaby. 


MRS.  HATTIE  TYNG  GRISWOLD. 

Hattie  Tyng  was  born  in  Boston  in  1840,  and  came  with  her 
parents  to  Columbus,  Wisconsin,  in  1850,  where,  in  course  of 
time,  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Griswold,  and  it  was  in  this  de- 
lightful village  that  much  of  her  work  as  an  author  was  done. 
Here  she  died  in  1909. 

The  books  by  which  she  is  best-known  are:  "Apple  Blos- 
soms," "Waiting  on  Destiny,"  "Lucile  and  Her  Friends,"  and 
"The  Home  Life  of  Great  Authors."  It  is  from  the  last  named 
book  that  our  selection  is  taken.  As  its  title  would  indicate, 
the  book  aimed  to  give  a  more  personal  and  intimate  view  of 
men  and  women  well-known  to  fame  than  is  to  be  found  in 
most  reference  works.  The  young  readers  of  this  volume  will 
know  that  mere  dates  and  statistics  do  not  enable  them  to 
know  people;  they  like  to  have  some  personal  details  as  to  the 
habits  and  daily  lives  of  the  people  about  whom  they  read. 
Mrs.  Griswold  was  so  filled  with  the  true  teaching  instinct  that 
she  realized  this.  She  says  in  one  of  her  works  that  since  she 
had  such  a  hard  time  when  she  was  a  little  girl  getting  any  pic- 
ture in  her  mind  of  the  great  people  about  whom  she  read,  that 
she  determined  to  make  it  easier  for  other  boys  and  girls  to 
get  these  mental  pictures;  that  is  why  she  wrote  "The  Home 
Life  of  Great  Authors." 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIEB 

From     "HOME    LIFE    OF    GREAT    AUTHORS."       Copyright.    1886. 
A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

The  poet  Whittier  always  calls  to  mind  the  prophet- 
bards  of  the  olden  time.  There  is  much  of  the  old  Semetic 
fire  about  him,  and  ethical  and  religious  subjects  seem 
to  occupy  his  entire  mind.  Like  his  own  Tauler,  he 
walks  abroad,  constantly 

"Pondering  the  solemn  Miracle  of  Life; 
As  one  who,  wandering  in  a  starless  night, 
Feels  momently  the  jar  of  unseen  waves, 
And  hears  the  thunder  of  an  unknown  sea 
Breaking  along  an  unimagined  shore." 


190  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

His  poems  are  so  thorougly  imbued  with  this  religious 
spirit  that  they  seem  to  us  almost  like  the  sacred  writings 
of  the  different  times  and  nations  of  the  world.  They 
come  to  the  lips  upon  all  occasions  of  deep  feeling  almost 
as  naturally  as  the  Scriptures  do.  They  are  current  coin 
with  reformers  the  world  over.  They  are  the  Alpha  and 
Omega  of  deep,  strong  religious  faith.  Whoever  would 
best  express  his  entire  confidence  in  the  triumph  of  the 
right,  and  his  reliance  upon  God's  power  against  the  de- 
vices of  men,  finds  the  words  of  Whittier  upon  his  lips; 
and  to  those  who  mourn  and  seek  for  consolation,  how 
naturally  and  involuntarily  come  back  lines  from  his 
poems  they  have  long  treasured,  but  which  perhaps  never 
had  a  personal  application  until  now!  To  the  wronged, 
the  down-trodden,  and  the  suffering  they  appeal  as 
strongly  as  the  Psalms  of  David.  He  is  the  great  High 
Priest  of  Literature.  But  few  priests  at  any  time  have 
had  such  an  audience  and  such  influence  as  he.  The 
moral  and  religious  value  of  his  work  can  scarcely  be 
overstated.  Who  can  ever  estimate  the  power  which  his 
strong  words  have  had  throughout  his  whole  career  in 
freeing  the  minds  of  other  millions  from  the  shackles 
of  unworthy  old  beliefs?  His  blows  have  been  strong, 
steady,  persistent.  He  has  never  had  the  fear  of  man 
before  his  eyes.  No  man  has  done  more  for  freedom, 
fellowship  and  character  in  religion  than  he.  Hypocrisy 
and  falsehood  and  cant  have  been  his  dearest  foes, 
and  he  has  ridden  at  them  early  and  late  with  his  lance 
poised  and  his  steed  at  full  tilt.  Indeed,  for  a  Quaker, 
Mr.  Whittier  must  be  said  to  have  a  great  deal  of  the 
martial  spirit.  The  fiery,  fighting  zeal  of  the  old  re- 
formers is  in  his  blood.  You  can  imagine  him  as  upon 
occasion  enjoying  the  imprecatory  Psalms.  In  his  anti- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  191 

slavery  poems  there  is  a  depth  of  passionate  earnestness 
which  shows  that  he  could  have  gone  to  the  stake  for  his 
opinions  had  he  lived  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours.  That 
he  did  risk  his  life  for  them,  even  in  our  .own  day,  is  well 
known.  During  the  intense  heat  of  the  anti-slavery  con- 
flict he  was  mobbed  once  and  again  by  excited  crowds; 
but  he  was  not  to  be  intimidated  by  all  the  powers  of 
evil,  and  continued  to  speak  his  strong  words  and  to  sing 
his  inspiring  songs,  whether  men  would  hear  or  whether 
they  would  forbear.  And  those  Voices  of  Freedom,  what- 
ever may  be  thought  of  them  by  mere  critics  and  littera- 
teurs, will  outlast  any  poems  of  their  day,  and  sound 
"down  the  ringing  grooves  of  Time"  when  much  that  is 
now  honored  has  been  forgotten.  He  will  be  known  as 
the  Poet  of  a  great  Cause,  the  Bard  of  Freedom,  as  long 
as  the  great  anti-slavery  conflict  is  remembered.  He  is 
a  part,  and  an  important  part,  of  the  history  of  his 
country,  a  central  figure  in  the  battalions  of  the  brave. 
Those  wild,  stirring  bugle-calls  of  his  cheered  the  little 
army,  and  held  it  together  many  a  time  when  the  cause 
was  only  a  forlorn  hope,  and  they  came  with  thoir  stern 
defiance  into  the  camp  of  the  enemy  with  such  masterful 
power  that  some  gallant  enemies  deserted  to  his  side. 
They  were  afraid  to  be  found  fighting  against  God,  as 
Whittier  had  convinced  them  they  were  doing.  There  is 
the  roll  of  drums  and  the  clash  of  spears  in  these  stirring 
strains;  there  are  echoes  from  Thermopylae  and  Mara- 
thon, and  the  breath  of  the  old  Greek  heroes  is  in  the 
air;  there  is  a  hint  of  the  old  Border  battle-cries  from 
Scotland's  hills  and  tarns ;  from  Jura's  rocky  wall  we  can 
catch  the  cheers  of  Tell;  and  the  voice  of  Cromwell  can 
often  be  distinguished  in  the  strain. 

There  is  also  the  sweep  of  the  winds  through   the 


192  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

pine  woods,  and  the  mountain  blasts  of  New  England,  and 
the  strong,  fresh  breath  of  the  salt  sea;  all  tonic  in- 
fluences, in  short,  which  braced  up  the  minds  of  the  men 
of  those  days  to  a  fixed  and  heroic  purpose,  from  which 
they  never  receded  until  their  end  was  achieved.  It  has 
become  the  fashion  in  these  days  of  dilettanteism  to  say 
that  earnestness  and  moral  purpose  have  no  place  in 
poetry,  and  small  critics  have  arisen  who  claim  that  Mr. 
\Vhittier  has  been  spoiled  as  a  poet  by  his  moral  teach- 
ings. To  these  critics  it  is  only  necessary  to  point  to  the 
estimation  in  which  Mr.  Whittier's  poetry  is  held  by  the 
world,  and  to  the  daily  widening  of  his  popularity  among 
scholars  and  men  of  letters,  as  well  as  among  the  people, 
to  teach  them  that  this  ruined  poetry  is  likely  to  live 
when  all  the  merely  pretty  poetry  they  so  much  admire  is 
forgotten  forever.  The  small  poets  who  are  afraid  of 
touching  a  moral  question  for  fear  of  ruining  their  poems 
would  do  well  to  compare  Poe,  who  is  the  leader  of  their 
school  and  its  best  exponent,  with  Mr.  Whittier,  and  to 
ask  themselves  which  is  the  more  likely  to  survive  the 
test  of  time.  Let  them  also  ponder  the  words  of 
Principal  Shairp,  one  of  the  finest  critics  of  the  day,  when 
he  says  of  the  true  mission  of  the  poet,  that  "it  is  to 
awaken  men  to  the  divine  side  of  things;  to  bear  witness 
to  the  beauty  that  clothes  the  outer  world,  the  nobility 
that  lies  hid,  often  obscured,  in  human  souls ;  to  call  forth 
sympathy  for  neglected  truths,  for  noble  and  oppressed 
persons,  for  down-trodden  causes;  and  to  make  men  feel 
that  through  all  outward  beauty  and  all  pure  inward 
affection  God  himself  is  addressing  them."  They  would 
do  well  also  to  ponder  the  words  of  Ruskin,  who  believes 
that  only  in  as  far  as  it  has  a  distinct  moral  purpose  is 
a  literary  work  of  value  to  the  world. 


ALBERT  H.  SANFORD. 

Professor  Albert  H.  Sanford,  of  the  La  Crosse  State  Normal 
School,  is  best  known  as  an  author  of  text  books  and  pamphlets 
on  history  and  related  subjects.  But  he  is,  like  all  the  other 
school  men  whose  works  are  represented  here,  interested  in 
other  fields  besides  his  specialty. 

Born  in  the  southwestern  part  of  Wisconsin,  he  naturally 
became  interested  in  farming,  and  in  the  development  of  agri- 
culture in  the  agricultural  section.  From  this  interest  and  his 
natural  bent  toward  anything  historical  grew  his  desire  to  pic- 
ture briefly  and  attractively  the  development  of  this  most  im- 
portant industry  of  our  country  from  its  early  beginnings  in 
colonial  times  to  the  present  day.  His  book  is  filled  with 
narratives  and  expositions  which  will  hold  the  interest  of  any 
boy  or  girl  who  likes  to  read  stories  of  adventure  or  trial,  of 
hardship,  and  of  final  success. 

The  most  noteworthy  feature  of  Professor  Sanford's  style 
is  clarity,  coupled  with  logical  sequence  and  organization.  The 
brief  selection  here  given  illustrates  these  qualities,  and  repre- 
sents very  fairly  the  remainder  of  the  book. 


THE  STORY  OF  AGRICULTURE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

Copyright.  1916,  by  D.  C.  Heath  &  Co.     From  Chapter  X. 

When  farms  were  scattered,  life  became  lonely  and 
monotonous ;  the  people  therefore  took  advantage  of  every 
possible  occasion  to  have  social  gatherings.  House  rais- 
ings and  log-rollings  gave  opportunity  for  such  meetings. 
The  women  met  in  sewing  and  quilting  bees  and  apple- 
parings  ;  the  men  came  for  the  evening  meal  and  remained 
for  the  country  dance.  The  husking-bee  was  the  most 
exciting  of  these  events.  The  long  pile  of  corn  was 
divided  equally  between  two  leaders,  who  first  "  chose 
sides'*  for  the  contest.  Then  the  men  fell  to  the  work 
with  a  will,  each  side  determined  to  finish  its  portion  first. 


194  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Sometimes  the  rivalry  ran  into  rough  play  and  even  fight- 
ing ;  but  the  spirit  of  good  nature  prevailed  at  the  supper 
that  had  been  prepared  by  the  women  in  the  meantime. 

To  these  "frolics"  were  added,  in  later  years,  the 
spelling  matches  and  singing  schools,  attended  by  both 
old  and  young.  The  coming  of  the  backwoods  "circuit 
rider"  to  hold  a  religious  service  in  some  log  cabin  or  in 
the  schoolhouse  was  an  event  of  importance.  The  summer 
"camp  meetings"  were  attended  by  hundreds  of  families, 
and  here  a  chance  was  given  for  those  who  had  forgotten 
the  ways  of  civilized  life  in  the  midst  of  the  rough  fron- 
tier conditions  to  be  "converted"  and  to  return  to  better 
ways.  The  preaching,  singing,  and  praying  were  all  done 
by  main  strength,  both  of  voice  and  of  muscle. 

The  frontier  farmer  boy  had  no  lack  of  occupation. 
He  split  the  kindling  and  the  wood  for  the  fire-place  and 
gathered  the  chips  used  for  lighting  the  cabin  when 
tallow  dips  were  scarce.  He  fed  and  drove  the  cows,  but 
let  his  sister  do  the  milking.  He  took  part  in  the  work 
of  washing  and  shearing  the  sheep.  He  helped  in  churn- 
ing and  soap-making,  and  ran  the  melted  tallow  into  the 
tin  candle-molds.  He  looked  forward  to  butchering  day  as 
to  a  celebration.  In  the  fall  he  chopped  the  sausage  meat 
and  the  various  ingredients  of  mince  pies.  On  stormy 
days  and  winter  evenings  he  might  help  his  mother  clean 
and  card  the  wool,  wind  the  y.arn,  and  hetchel  flax.  Later 
she  might  call  upon  him  for  help  in  dyeing  the  homespun 
and  bleaching  the  linen. 

The  boy  was  useful  to  his  father  when  he  searched  the 
woods  for  good  trees  from  which  special  articles  were  to 
be  made,  such  as  ax-helves  and  ox-yokes.  From  hickory 
saplings  he  could  make  splint  brooms  and  cut  out  the 
splints  utied  in  making  chair  bottoms  and  baskets.  He 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  J95 

guarded  the  corn  fields  from  squirrels  and  crows  and  set 
traps  for  wolves.  He  went  on  horse-back  to  the  grist 
mill,  which  was  generally  some  miles  away,  and  waited 
there  for  his  turn  to  have  his  sack  of  corn  ground  into 
meal.  Along  with  these  duties  were  some  pleasures,  such 
as  going  nutting  and  berrying  and  hunting  for  grapes. 
Bee-hunting  gave  its  rich  reward  in  the  hollow  trunk  full 
of  honey.  " Sugaring  off"  twice  in  the  spring  was  a 
special  time  of  delight,  though  it  brought  its  tasks  in  the 
making  of  wooden  spouts,  the  carrying  of  buckets  of 
sap  and  water,  and  the  tending  of  fires. 


CHARLES  D.  STEWART 

Charles  D.  Stewart  was  born  at  Zanesville,  Ohio,  in  1868, 
and  came  with  his  people  to  Wisconsin  when  but  a  young  boy. 
He  received  his  elementary  education  in  the  public  schools  of 
Milwaukee,  after  which  he  attended  Wayland  Academy  at 
Beaver  Dam.  Like  many  others  of  our  authors,  Mr.  Stewart 
has  had  considerable  connection  with  newspapers,  but  it  is  as 
an  author  of  stories,  poems,  and  critical  articles,  both  in  maga- 
zines and  in  published  volumes,  that  he  is  best  known.  Per- 
haps the  readers  of  this  book  are  already  familiar  with  his 
"The  Fugitive  Blacksmith,"  "Partners  of  Providence,"  "Essays 
on  the  Spot,"  "The  Wrong  Woman,"  etc.  He  is  now  executive 
clerk  in  Governor  Philipp's  office. 

Mr.  Stewart  is  an  author  with  whom  the  reader  frequently 
finds  himself  in  disagreement.  This  is  particularly  true  of  his 
critical  work,  which  has  itself  received  severe  criticism  at  the 
hands  of  some  other  critics,  while  in  the  opinion  of  still  others 
Mr.  Stewart  has  made  distinct  contributions  to  the  field  of  Eng- 
lish criticism,  particularly  with  respect  to  Shakespeare.  His 
style  is  rich  and  at  times  diffuse.  He  has  a  wealth  of  illustrative 
material  at  hand,  and  one  might  be  inclined  to  say  that  at 
times  Mr.  Stewart  allows  himself  to  stray  too  far  from  his 
main  theme  in  drawing  upon  these  resources.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  reader  is  constantly  interested  and  frequently  chal- 
lenged, so  that  his  intelligence  is  always  brought  into  play  in 
reading  this  author's  work;  and  it  is  well  to  remember,  as 
Ruskin  says,  that  if  we  never  read  anything  with  which  we 
disagreed  we  should  never  grow.  It  is  the  author  who  makes 
us  think  who  does  us  the  greatest  service. 

The  selection  here  given  is  from  "On  a  Moraine."  It  illus- 
trates all  the  points  of  which  we  have  spoken.  To  the  editors 
it  appeals  as  a  piece  of  useful,  patriotic  Wisconsin  literature. 
The  whole  article  will  well  repay  reading  for  anyone  who  loves 
the  Badger  state  and  wishes  to  know  it  better.  It  shows  a  keen 
appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  and  ready  imagination  in  making 
comparisons  where  one  least  expects  to  find  them,  as  in  the 
suggestion  of  likeness  between  the  freshly  exposed  surfaces  of 
a  newly  split  rock,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  wings  of  a  moth 
on  the  other. 

The  article  also  well  illustrates  the  treatment  of  a  some- 
what technical  and  supposedly  dry  subject  in  a  delightful  and 
imaginative  manner. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  197 

ON  A  MORAINE 

Upon  the  shoulder  of  a  terminal  moraine  was  a  barley- 
field  whose  fence  was  to  furnish  me  with  stone;  and  I 
prospected  its  beauties  with  a  six-pound  sledge.  "  Hard- 
heads "  many  of  them  [the  stones]  were  called,  and  they 
let  fly  enough  sparks  that  summer  to  light  the  fire  for  a 
thousand  years.  They  were  igneous  rocks,  and  they  re- 
sponded in  terms  of  fire. 

Such  rocks !  Rag-carpets  woven  in  garnet  and  topaz ; 
petrified  Oriental  rugs;  granites  in  endless  designs  of 
Scotch  mixture,  as  if  each  bowlder  were  wearing  the 
plaid  of  its  clan ;  big,  uncouth,  scabiose,  ignorant-looking 
hardheads  that  opened  with  a  heart  of  rose, — each  one  a 
separate  album  opening  to  a  sample  from  a  different 
quarry.  I  have  seen  cloven  field-stone  that  deserved  a 
hinge  and  a  gold  clasp ;  I  have  one  in  sight  now  which  is 
such  a  delicate  contrast  of  faintest  rose  and  mere  spiritual 
green  that  it  is  like  the  first  blush  of  dawn.  Imagine 
smiting  a  rock  until  the  fragments  sting  you  in  the  face, 
and  then  seeing  it  calmly  unfold  the  two  wings  of  a  moth ! 
I  have  broken  into  a  rock  which  pleased  me  so  well  that 
I  held  it  in  mind  in  order  to  match  it;  but  though  I  had 
the  pick  of  a  hundred  and  sixty  loads  that  summer  I 
never  found  another.  There  is  "  individuality "  for  you. 

Some  of  them  are  "niggerheads."  These  are  the 
hardest  rock  known  to  practical  experience.  There  are 
those  that  have  refused  to  succumb  to  the  strongest  hit- 
ters in  the  country.  Some  of  them  will  break  and  others 
will  not;  the  only  way  is  to  try.  Fortunatety  I  had  had 
some  early  training  as  a  blacksmith;  but  this  was  as  if 
the  smith  were  trying  to  break  his  anvil.  I  have  seen 
the  steel  face  of  a  hammer  chip  off  without  making  a  mark 
on  one.  And  yet  the  glaciers  wore  them  off  to  make 


198  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

soil  and  left  them  rounded  like  big  pebbles!  I  never 
realized  what  ground  is,  till  I  became  acquainted  with  the 
stones  that  did  the  grinding. 

My  fence  was  eight  to  ten  feet  in  thickness  and 
shoulder  high;  and  similar  windrows  of  rock  ran  over 
the  moraine  in  all  directions,  like  a  range  upon  a  range. 
It  is,  of  course,  valuable  land  that  warrants  a  wall  like 
that.  The  barley-field  might  easily  have  defied  a  siege- 
gun  on  all  four  sides,  for  it  had  had  so  many  bowlders  on 
it  that  they  had  been  built  up  into  more  of  a  rampart  than 
a  windrow.  On  a  near-by  field  from  which  the  timber 
had  been  removed,  but  which,  notwithstanding,  was  far 
from  " cleared,'*  it  looked  as  if  it  had  hailed  bowlders. 
You  could  have  forded  your  way  across  it  without  putting 
a  foot  to  ground.  I  have  seen  places  where  the  glaciers 
had  deposited  rocks  in  surprising  uniformity  of  size,  and 
as  thick  as  the  heads  of  an  audience  (a  comparison  that 
means  no  harm,  I  trust). 

Because  of  my  encounters  with  "niggerheads,"  and 
other  layerless  or  massive  rock,  I  had  difficulty  in  getting 
a  handle  which  would  not  give  out.  Not  that  I  broke 
them  with  mislicks,  but  the  sudden  bounce  of  the  steel 
jolts  the  grain  of  the  wood  apart,  and  then  a  split  begins 
to  work  its  way  up  the  handle.  After  this  happens  a 
man  will  not  try  to  crack  many  bowlders,  for  the  split 
hickory  vibrates  in  a  way  that  hurts.  That  sudden  sting 
and  numbing  of  the  arm  is  the  only  sensation  I  ever  came 
across  that  resembles  the  sting  of  a  Texas  scorpion ;  and 
that  is  an  injection  of  liquid  lighting  that  suffuses  the 
membranes  from  hand  to  shoulder,  and  dwells  a  while  and 
fades  away.  I  might  say  here  that  the  sting  of  the 
dreaded  scorpion  is  harmless,  like  that  of  the  tarantula, 
as  any  one  with  a  few  experiences  knows.  A  wrong- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  199- 

headed  bowlder  that  has  kept  itself  intact  for  ages  and 
spits  fire  at  you,  and  then  takes  measures  to  protect  it- 
self, is  far  more  dangerous.  One  of  them  shot  off  a  piece 
with  such  force  that  it  went  through  my  clothing  and 
made  a  respectable  wound.  This,  however,  is  just  what 
is  needed  to  rouse  you  up  and  make  you  hit  back;  and 
when  you  have  had  success  with  this  one  you  are  sure 
to  pass  on  to  another. 

There  is  an  enticement  in  their  secret,  locked-up 
beauty  that  lures  you  on  from  rock  to  rock  till  nightfall. 
Thus  you  are  kept  at  it,  till  some  day  you  find  you  have 
become  a  slave  of  the  exercise  habit ;  you  are  addicted  to 
sunshine  and  sweat  and  cool  spring  water;  your  nose,  so 
long  a  disadvantage  to  you,  comes  to  life  and  discovers 
so  many  varieties  of  fresh  air  that  every  breath  has  a 
different  flavor  to  it.  As  for  myself,  I  rather  prefer  to 
take  wild  plum  or  clover  in  my  atmosphere — or  a  good 
whiff  of  must  off  the  barley-field.  Along  in  July  it  is 
excellent  to  work  somewhere  in  the  jurisdiction  of  a  bass- 
wood  tree.  Compare  this  with  the  office-building  or  the 
street-car,  where  the  only  obtainable  breath  is  second- 
hand. Nobody  could  now  coax  you  back  to  where  ]/^ople 
have  eyes  that  see  not,  tongues  that  taste  not,  and  noses 
that  smell  not  unless  they  have  to.  I  have  experienced 
smells  in  a  city  that  would  make  a  baby  cry.  *  *  * 

And  this  reminds  me  to  conclude — where  possibly  I 
should  have  begun — with  the  remarkable  pedigree  of  the 
state  itself.  Stretching  across  Canada,  north  of  the  St. 
Lawrence,  and  ending  in  the  regions  about  the  source  of 
the  Mississippi,  is  a  range  of  low  granite  hills  called  the 
Laurentian  Highlands.  These  hills  are  really  mountains 
that  are  almost  worn  out,  for  they  are  the  oldest  land  in 
America,  and,  according  to  Agassiz,  the  oldest  in  the 


200  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

world.  In  the  days  when  there  was  nothing  but  water  on 
the  face  of  the  globe,  these  mountains  came  up — a  long 
island  of  primitive  rock  with  universal  ocean  chafing 
against  its  shores.  None  of  the  other  continents  had  put 
in  their  appearance  at  the  time  America  was  thus  looking 
up.  The  United  States  began  to  come  to  light  by  the 
gradual  uplifting  of  this  land  to  the  north  and  the  appear- 
ance of  the  tops  of  the  Alleghanies,  which  were  the  next 
in  order.  Later,  the  Rockies  started  up.  The  United 
States  grew  southward  from  Wisconsin  and  westward 
from  Blue  Ridge.  An  early  view  of  the  country  would 
have  shown  a  large  island  which  is  now  northern  Wiscon- 
sin, and  a  long,  thin  tongue  of  this  primitive  rock  stick- 
ing down  from  Canada  into  Minnesota,  and  these  two 
growing  states  looking  out  over  the  waters  at  the  mere  be- 
ginnings of  mountain-ranges  east  and  west.  They  were 
waiting  for  the  rest  of  the  United  States  to  appear. 

As  the  heated  interior  of  the  earth  continued  to  cool 
and  contract,  and  the  water-covered  crust  sank  in  some 
places,  and  kept  bulging  up  higher  in  others,  the  island 
of  northern  Wisconsin  continued  to  grow,  and  the  Alle- 
ghanies came  up  with  quite  a  strip  of  territory  at  their 
base.  The  western  mountains  made  no  progress  what- 
ever; it  was  as  if  they  had  some  doubt  about  the  matter. 
A  view  at  another  stage  of  progress  would  have  shown 
Wisconsin  and  Minnesota  entirely  out,  and  pulling  up 
with  them  the  edges  of  adjoining  states,  and  a  strip  along 
the  Atlantic  about  half  as  wide  as  New  York  or  Penn- 
sylvania. Still  no  United  States.  There  was  water  be- 
tween these  two  sections  and  some  islands  scattered 
about  in  the  south.  The  western  mountains  had  not 
been  progressing  at  all;  they  lagged  behind  for  aeons. 
These  two  sections,  beginning  with  Wisconsin  and  Min- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  201 

nesota  in  the  west  and  the  Alleghanies  in  the  east,  kept 
reaching  out  till  they  made  continuous  land;  and  thus 
Ohio  and  all  those  states  between  are  some  ages  younger. 
But  they  are  much  older  than  the  west;  for  at  a  time 
when  the  whole  eastern  half  of  the  continent  had  long 
appeared,  the  Gulf  Stream  was  flowing  across  the  west, 
and  the  waters  were  depositing  the  small  sea-shells  which 
make  the  calcareous  matter  under  Kansas  loam.  All  that 
country  is  much  younger,  and  the  western  mountains 
are  as  big  as  they  are  simply  because  they  have  not  had 
time  to  become  worn  down.  As  to  Florida,  it  was  a  mere 
afterthought,  an  addition  built  on  by  coral  insects. 

The  whole  story  of  those  east-central  and  southern 
states — how  Pennsylvania  and  Ohio  and  Illinois  got  their 
coal,  and  Michigan  her  salt — would  make  a  lengthy  nar- 
rative; I  have  mentioned  just  enough  to  show  the  age 
of  Wisconsin  and  the  still  greater  age  of  some  of  that 
glacial  matter  that  came  down  from  the  direction  of  the 
Laurentian  Highlands.  It  is  the  oldest  land  in  the  world ; 
and  the  other  states,  I  am  sure,  will  not  resent  my  taking 
out  the  state's  pedigree  and  showing  it.  Wisconsin  took 
part  with  the  east  in  what  geologists  call  the  Appalachian 
Revolution, — is  a  veritable  Daughter  of  the  Revolution. 
I  mention  it  merely  because  I  think  it  greatly  to  the  credit 
of  a  dairy  state  that,  at  a  time  so  early  in  the  world's 
morning,  she  was  up  and  doing. 


ELLIOTT  FLOWER 

Elliott  Flower  is  another  of  Wisconsin's  writers  who  came 
into  the  field  of  literature  through  newspaper  work.  He  was 
born  at  Madison  in  1863,  and  after  receiving  a  common  school 
education  there,  he  went  to  Phillips  Academy  at  Massachusetts. 
He  was  editor  of  the  Rambler  in  1885  and  1886,  and  after  that 
he  was  for  some  years  engaged  in  editorial  work  on  Chicago 
papers.  Since  1899.  however,  most  of  his  work  has  been  of 
a  purely  literary  nature,  and  his  residence  has  been  in  Madison 
for  some  time.  He  is  the  author  of  "Policeman  Flynn,"  "The 
Spoilsman."  "Nurse  Norah,"  "Delightful  Dog,"  and  other  books. 

The  story  from  which  we  quote  is  "The  Impractical  Man." 
It  is  fairly  representative  of  a  considerable  portion  of  his  work. 
It  shows  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  a  skillful  handling  of  conver- 
sation, and  considerable  knowledge  of  human  nature.  Our  se- 
lection embraces  the  first  and  last  portions  of  the  story.  Be- 
tween these  selections  many  experiences  fall  to  the  lot  of  the 
"impractical  man."  There  is  an  adventure  in  the  woods,  in 
which  the  men  are  lost,  and  there  are  many  laughable  expe- 
riences in  a  canoe.  In  this  story,  as  is  frequently  the  case  in 
Mr.  Flower's  work,  the  unexpected  happens,  and  the  character 
whom  the  reader  has  been  inclined  to  pity  because  of  his  in- 
ability to  take  care  of  himself  suddenly  proves  to  be  shrewd 
enough  to  outwit  those  with  whom  he  is  dealing. 


THE  IMPRACTICAL  MAN 

From  the  Century  Magazine,  Vol.  64,  p.  549. 

"I  am  sorry  to  inform  you,"  said  Shackelford,  the 
lawyer,  "that  you  have  been  to  some  trouble  and  ex- 
pense to  secure  a  bit  of  worthless  paper.  This — "and 
he  held  up  the  document  he  had  been  examining — "is 
about  as  valuable  as  a  copy  of  last  week's  newspaper." 

It  is  possible  that  Shackelford  really  regretted  the 
necessity  of  conveying  this  unpleasant  information  to 
Peter  J.  Connorton,  Cyrus  Talbot,  and  Samuel  D.  Peyton ; 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  203 

but,  if  so,  his  looks  belied  him,  for  he  smiled  very  much 
as  if  he  found  something  gratifying  in  the  situation. 

Connorton  was  the  first  to  recover  from  the  shock. 

* '  Then  it 's  a  swindle ! "  he  declared  hotly.  ' '  We  '11  get 
that  fellow  Hartley !  He's  a  crook!  We'll  make  him— " 

"Oh,  no,"  interrupted  Shackelford,  quietly,  "it's  no 
swindle.  According  to  your  own  story,  you  prepared  the 
paper  yourself  and  paid  him  for  his  signature  to  it. ' ' 

"We  paid  him  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  for  his 
patent,"  asserted  Connorton. 

"But  you  didn't  get  the  patent,"  returned  Shackel- 
ford. "He  has  assigned  to  you,  for  a  consideration  of 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  all  his  rights,  title,  and  in- 
terest in  something  or  other,  but  the  assignment  doesn't 
clearly  show  what.  There  are  a  thousand  things  that  it 
might  be,  but  nothing  that  it  definitely  and  positively  is. 
Very  likely  he  doesn't  know  this,  but  very  likely  some- 
body will  tell  him.  Anyhow,  you've  got  to  clear  an 
unquestioned  title  before  you  can  do  anything  with  the 
patent  without  danger  of  unpleasant  consequences." 

Deeper  gloom  settled  upon  the  faces  of  the  three,  and 
especially  upon  the  face  of  Connorton,  who  was  primarily 
responsible  for  their  present  predicament. 

"What  would  you  advise?"  asked  Connorton  at  last. 

"Well,"  returned  the  lawyer,  after  a  moment  of 
thought,  "you'd  better  find  him.  As  near  as  I  can  make 
out,  he  had  no  thought  of  tricking  you." 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  believe  he  had,"  confessed  Connor- 
ton.  "I  spoke  hastily  when  I  charged  that.  He's  too 
impractical  for  anything  of  the  sort." 

"Much  too  impractical,  I  should  say,"  added  Talbot, 
and  Peyton  nodded  approval. 

"In  that  case,"  pursued  the  lawyer,  "you  can  still 


204  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

clinch  the  deal  easily  and  quickly — if  you  get  to  him 
first.  I  see  nothing  particularly  disturbing  in  the  situa- 
tion, except  the  possibility  that  somebody  who  is  practi- 
cal may  get  hold  of  him  before  you  do,  or  that  he  may 
learn  in  some  other  way  of  the  value  of  his  invention. 
Do  you  know  where  he  is?" 

"No,"  answered  Connorton.    "That's  the  trouble." 

"Not  so  troublesome  as  it  might  be,"  returned  the 
lawyer.  "He  is  not  trying  to  hide,  if  we  are  correct  in 
our  surmise,  and  his  eccentricities  of  dress  and  deport- 
ment would  attract  attention  to  him  anywhere.  I  have  a 
young  man  here  in  the  office  who  will  get  track  of  him  in 
no  time,  if  you  have  nothing  better  to  suggest. ' ' 

They  had  nothing  better  to  suggest,  so  Byron  Paul- 
son was  called  in,  given  a  description  of  Ira  Hartley, 
together  with  such  information  as  to  his  associates  and 
haunts  as  it  was  possible  to  give,  and  sent  in  quest  of 
news  of  him. 

"Meanwhile,"  observed  the  lawyer,  "I'll  prepare 
something  for  his  signature,  when  we  find  him,  that  will 
have  no  loopholes  in  it." 


Connorton  and  Paulson  had  no  difficulty  in  securing 
permission  to  talk  with  Hartley,  and  they  approached 
with  considerable  confidence  the  cell  in  which  he  was  de- 
tained. It  had  occured  to  them,  upon  reflection,  that  they 
were  now  in  a  most  advantageous  position  in  the  matter 
of  their  business  relations  with  the  inventor.  He  was 
friendless  in  a  strange  city.  He  was  believed  to  be  of 
unsound  mind,  and  his  actions  had  been  erratic  enough 
to  give  color  to  that  belief.  He  could  hardly  hope  to 
secure  his  release  without  their  help,  and  if  so,  they  could 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  205 

impose  their  own  terms  before  extending  that  help. 

To  their  surprise,  they  found  him  quite  cheerful  and 
apparently  indifferent  or  blind  to  the  seriousness  of  his 
predicament. 

"Hullo,  Connorton!"  he  cried,  when  he  saw  them  ap- 
proaching. "Any  other  proposition  to  make  now?" 

"Why,  no,  certainly  not,"  replied  Connorton.  "We 
came  to  see  about  you. ' ' 

"Awfully  good  of  you,"  laughed  Hartley.  "Ho\v  you 
do  love  me,  Connorton !" 

Connorton 's  face  reddened,  but  he  ignored  the  thrust. 
"You've  got  yourself  in  a  nice  fix,  Hartley,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  exclaimed  Paulson. 

"Not  to  me,"  asserted  Hartley.  "It  may  be  to  you, 
of  course." 

The  impractical  man  appeared  to  be  able  to  take  a 
very  practical  view  of  some  matters,  and  Connorton  was 
the  more  perturbed  and  uneasy  in  consequence. 

"They  say  you're  crazy,"  suggested  Connorton. 

"And  I  guess  they  can  prove  it,  too,"  rejoined  Hart- 
ley, cheerfully.  "You've  said  the  same  thing  yourself, 
and  I  know  you  wouldn't  lie  about  a  mere  trifle  like  that. 
Then,  the  conductor,  the  engineer,  and  the  fireman  of  the 
train  we  came  down  on  will  swear  to  it  *  *  *  not  to 
mention  the  cooper,  the  hotel  clerk,  a  few  bell-boys,  and 
the  policeman  who  arrested  me.  Yes,  I  guess  I'm  crazy, 
Connorton.  Too  bad,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  likely  to  be  bad  for  you,"  said  Connorton. 

"Oh,  no,"  returned  Hartley,  easily,  "I'm  not  violent, 
you  know,  just  mentally  defective;  unable  to  transact 
business,  as  you  might  say.  They'll  find  that  out  and  let 


206  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

me  go ;  but  there  will  be  the  taint,  the  suspicion,  the  doubt. 
Very  likely  a  conservator  will  be  appointed  when  I  get 
back  home — some  shrewd,  sharp  fellow,  with  a  practical 
mind." 

Such  a  very  impractical  man  was  the  inventor,  and  so 
very  troublesome  in  his  impracticality !  Connorton  could 
only  begin  at  the  beginning  again,  and  go  slow. 

*  *  Suppose  we  get  you  out, ' '  he  ventured, ' '  what  would 
you  be  willing  to  do?" 

"What  would  you  be  willing  to  do?"  retorted  Hart- 
ley. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  demanded  Connorton. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Hartley,  with  an 
air  of  the  utmost  frankness.  "I  seldom  mean  anything, 
of  course,  and  it  is  such  a  lot  of  trouble  to  find  out  what 
I  do  mean  when  I  mean  anything  that  I  usually  give  it  up. 
But  you  are  so  deeply  interested  in  me — so  much  more 
interested  in  me  than  I  am  in  myself — that  I  thought  you 
might  want  to  keep  me  sane ;  that  you  might  not  like  to 
feel  that  you  had  driven  me  crazy. ' ' 

Paulson  was  about  to  interrupt,  but  Connorton  mo- 
tioned to  him  to  be  silent.  Connorton  was  in  the  habit 
of  handling  his  own  business  matters,  and  he  wanted  his 
lawyer  to  speak  only  when  a  legal  proposition  was  put 
directly  up  to  him.  It  may  be  admitted  that  he  was 
sorely  perplexed  now;  but  he  found  nothing  in  the  in- 
ventor's face  but  a  bland  smile,  and  he  did  not  think 
Paulson  could  help  him  to  interpret  that. 

"Hartley,"  he  said  at  last,  "I'll  get  you  out  of  here 
and  add  five  thousand  to  what  you've  already  had  the 
moment  that  patent  is  properly  transferred  to  me." 

"Connorton,"  returned  the  inventor,  "I  believe  I'm 
crazy.  When  I  think  of  the  events  of  the  last  few  days 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  207 

— of  your  more  than  brotherly  interest  in  me,  which  I 
have  pleasurably  exploited  during  our  delightful  associa- 
tion— I  believe  I  am  crazy  enough  to  say,  come  again ! '  * 

Connorton  drew  a  long  breath  and  conceded  another 
point.  "Hartley,"  he  proposed,  "you  may  keep  the 
money  I  have  already  given  you — " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hartley;  "I  shall." 

*' — and  you  may  also  have  a  quarter  interest  in  the 
patent, ' '  concluded  Connorton. 

"It's  all  mine  now,"  suggested  Hartley. 

"  If  so, "  argued  Connorton,  who  well  knew  that  much 
of  the  money  had  been  spent,  "you  owe  me  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars." 

"  If  so, "  returned  Hartley,  the  impractical  man,  "  I  in- 
fer from  your  anxiety  and  extraordinary  generosity  that 
I  can  sell  it  for  enough  to  pay  you  and  make  a  little  mar- 
gin for  myself.  Besides,  you  can't  collect  from  a  crazy 
man,  Connorton;  and  I'm  getting  crazier  every  minute. 
Business  always  goes  to  my  head,  Connorton.  You  must 
have  noticed  that  up  in  the  woods.  I'm  really  becoming 
alarmed  about  myself.  But  perhaps,  you  'd  rather  do  busi- 
ness with  a  conservator,  Connorton. ' ' 

"A  half  interest,"  urged  Connorton,  desperately,  as 
he  mentally  reviewed  the  weakness  of  his  own  position 
in  view  of  the  unsuspected  perspicacity  of  the  inventor. 
* '  Consider  that  I  have  paid  you  twenty-five  thousand  dol- 
lars for  a  half  interest,  and  the  other  half  is  yours.  I'll 
defray  whatever  expense  is  incurred  in  marketing  the 
invention,  too." 

Hartley  reflected,  seeming  in  doubt.  "Connorton," 
he  said  at  last,  "I  think  I  am  still  getting  the  worst  of 
it  somewhere,  but  an  impractical  fellow  like  me  deserves 
to  get  the  worst  of  it.  Go  ahead !  Have  that  agreement 


208  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

put  in  legal  form,  and  then  you  may  get  me  out  while 

there  is  yet  time  to  save  my  reason. " 
«     *     •     *     * 

Connorton  had  finished  his  appeal  for  the  release  of 
Hartley.  "Of  course/1  he  was  told,  "if  you  and  Mr. 
Paulson  will  assume  the  responsibility  and  will  imme- 
diately take  him  away,  we  shall  be  glad  to  let  you  have 
him ;  but  he  is  undoubtedly  demented. ' ' 

" Demented !"  snorted  Connorton.  "Say!  you  try  to 
do  business  with  him,  and  you'll  think  he's  the  sanest 
man  that  ever  lived ! ' ' 


JENKIN  LLOYD  JONES. 

Jenkin  Lloyd  Jones  is  one  of  the  best-known  Wisconsin 
ministers.  We  say  "Wisconsin,"  for,  though  he  is  now  a 
resident  of  Chicago,  his  parents  moved  from  South  Wales  to 
Wisconsin  in  1843  when  Jenkin  Lloyd  Jones  was  an  infant. 
During  his  boyhood  he  worked  on  the  home  farm;  then  in 
1862  he  enlisted,  and  served  for  three  years  in  the  Sixth 
Wisconsin  Battery  in  the  Civil  War.  He  is  a  graduate  of  the 
Meadville,  Pennsylvania,  theological  seminary  of  the  class  of 
1870.  He  holds  an  honorary  degree  of  LL.  D.  granted  by  the 
University  of  Wisconsin  in  1909.  He  was  pastor  of  All  Souls 
Church,  Janesville,  from  1871  to  1880.  He  established,  with 
others,  "Unity,"  a  weekly  paper,  now  organ  of  the  Congress  of 
Religion,  and  has  been  its  editor  since  1879.  He  organized 
All  Souls  Church  in  Chicago,  and  has  been  its  pastor  since 
1882.  He  is  the  author  of  almost  countless  pamphlets  and 
several  books,  among  the  latter  being  "Love  and  Loyalty," 
"What  Does  Christmas  Really  Mean,"  "On  the  Firing  Line  in 
the  Battle  for  Sobriety,"  and  his  creative  instinct  has  shown 
itself  in  the  organization  of  many  societies  and  institutions 
for  the  uplift  of  mankind. 


NUGGETS  FROM  A  WELSH  MINE 

Copyrighted  by  Olive  E.  Weston,  1902. 
THE  HOME  (Page  14). 

Love  is  the  only  safe  and  justifiable  basis  for  a  home. 
All  Bibles,  as  well  as  all  stories,  all  philosophy  and  all 
experience  assert  this. 

Go  to  housekeeping,  and,  if  possible,  to  house-building. 
Do  not  be  outdone  by  the  beaver.  Do  not  sink  lower  than 
the  bird,  who  builds  its  own  nest,  making  it  strong  with- 
out and  beautiful  within. 

That  home  alone  is  home  where  love  generates  gener- 
ous impulses,  noble  purposes.  True  love  will  breed 


210  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

heavenly  plans,  nurse  world-redeeming  schemes,  and  en- 
list all  the  forces  of  earth  in  the  interests  of  heaven. 

There  is  no  home  where  there  is  no  common  toil. 

The  world  is  the  larger  home.  The  child  must  early 
learn  to  feel  its  dependence  on  and  its  obligation  to  this 
larger  home  circle  if  it  is  to  grow  noble. 

There  are  no  furnishings  to  a  house  that  really  con- 
vert  it  into  a  home,  which  have  not  won  their  places,  one 
by  one,  in  the  heart  and  brain  of  the  housewife. 

Civilization  rests,  not  primarily  on  the  court-house,  or 
the  college,  or  the  public  school  building,  or  the  post- 
office,  or  the  railway  station,  or  yet  in  the  club,  but  in 
the  home. 

The  trouble  with  our  young  people  is  not  that  they  are 
too  poor  in  material  things  to  make  for  themselves  a 
home,  but  that  they  are  too  poor  in  spiritual  things  to 
confess  the  poverty  which  might  enable  them  to  lay  the 
foundations  of  a  home,  humble  but  altogether  holy  ... 

The  beautiful  heron,  mad  with  a  maternal  love,  blind 
to  all  dangers  from  without,  bent  only  on  protecting  her 
brood,  giving  her  life  to  her  little  ones,  was  killed  by 
the  woman  who  wears  the  graceful  aigrette — that  marvel 
of  Nature's  embroidery  woven  for  a  nuptial  robe  to  the 
gracious  bird.  She,  and  none  other,  is  responsible  for 
that  life,  for  it  was  for  her  sake  that  the  bloody  deed 
was  done. 


THE  SCHOOL   (Page  29). 

The  highest  task  that  life  holds  for  men  and  women 
is  the  choosing  of  an  ideal  to  grow  toward.    It  should  be 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  211 

sufficiently  far  away  to  require  a  whole  lifetime  to  pursue 
it. 

It  has  taken  a  hundred  years  of  agony  and  study  to 
prove  even  in  advanced  America  a  man's  right  to  his 
own  body;  a  woman's  right  to  her  old  soul;  and  the 
child's  right  to  the  development  of  his  mind  as  of  his 
muscle. 

I  plead  for  the  true  perspective  in  the  training  of 
your  children.  I  believe,  of  course,  in  good  bodies,  com- 
fortable and  beautiful  clothing,  generous  houses,  and  all 
the  learning  of  the  schools;  I  believe  in  intellectual  joy 
and  all  the  powers  of  thought,  but  only  when  they  are 
subordinated  to  high  affections  and  strong  wills. 

There  is  a  power  at  work  in  the  world  that  estimates 
gifts,  not  by  the  amount,  but  by  the  purpose  that  dic- 
tated them. 

The  kindergarten  contains  the  seed  of  the  gospel  for 
children  in  its  terminology  when  it  seeks  to  develop  the 
child  by  its  "occupations"  . 


WORK  (Page  111). 

There  can  be  no  development,  mental,  spiritual,  or 
physical,  except  by  exercise. 

Through  labor  we  became  creators,  co-workers  with 
God.  Labor  can  be  transfigured  into  a  habit. 

In  the  scales  of  the  universe,  a  day's  work  will  always 
weigh  more  than  the  dollar  that  pays  for  that  day's 
work. 

The  tradesman  who  strives  to  know  all  about  his  own 


212  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

business  and  cares  but  little  about  any  other,  will  not 
have  much  business  of  his  own  to  absorb  his  attention 
after  a  while. 

Blessed  word  is  that, — "  occupation. "  The  new  edu- 
cation is  bound  up  in  it.  The  health  of  the  child  is  con- 
tained in  it.  The  safety  of  the  saint  is  represented  by 
it,  and  the  progress  of  humanity  is  dependent  upon  it. 

When  labor  becomes  the  pride  of  the  laborer,  then  he 
becomes  fit  object  for  the  envy  of  kings. 

The  most  disordered  explosions  of  pent-up  passions 
and  unreleased  power  follow  in  the  wake  of  enforced 
idleness. 

There  is  no  release  from  toil,  and  the  only  escape 
from  the  burdens  of  labor  must  come,  not  by  its  cessa- 
tion, but  by  its  glorification. 

There  is  an  overwork  that  is  killing,  but  the  danger 
from  work,  any  work,  all  work,  is  trifling  compared  to 
the  greater  dangers  of  indolence. 

There  is  always  a  large  physical  element  in  distances. 
It  is  always  farther  from  the  breakfast  table  to  the  field 
than  it  is  from  the  field  to  the  dinner  table. 

When  the  wheels  of  life  bear  me  down  for  the  last 
time,  I  ask  for  no  higher  compliment,  I  seek  no  truer 
statement  of  the  work  I  have  tried  to  do,  than  that  which 
the  white-headed  old  negress  gave  the  beardless  boy  on 
the  hot  Corinth  cornfield  in  1862.  Then,  if  I  deserve  -it, 
let  some  one  who  loves  me  say,  "Here  is  a  Linkum  soldier 
who  has  done  got  run  over,"  one  who,  like  his  leader, 
tried  to  "pluck  a  thistle  and  plant  a  flower  wherever  a 
flower  would  grow." 


EVERETT  McNEIL. 

MOTHER'S  WOLF  STORY 

By  Everett  McNeil,  for  many  years  a  resident  of  Stoughton,  Wis.. 
now  living  in  New  York.  Taken  from  St.  Nicholas,  Vol.  XXX. 
p.  387.  Copyright  by  The  Century  Co. 

(For  many  years  a  resident  of  Stoughton;  now  living  In  New  York. 

Author  of  The  Cave  of  Gold,  In  Texas  with  Davy  Crockett, 

The  Totem  of  Black  Hawk,  Fighting  with  Fremont. 

The  Boy  Forty-Niners.   etc.) 

When  I  was  a  boy  there  was  one  story  which  my  sisters 
and  brothers  and  I  were  never  tired  or  hearing  mother 
tell ;  for  our  own  mother  was  its  heroine  and  the  scene  of 
the  thrilling  chase  was  not  more  than  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  our  own  door.  Indeed,  we  often  went  coasting  on 
the  very  hill  down  which  she  took  her  fearful  ride,  and 
skated  on  the  pond  which  was  the  scene  of  her  adventure. 
I  can  still  distinctly  remember  how,  when  the  long  winter 
evenings  came  and  the  snow  lay  deep  on  the  ground  and 
the  wind  whistled  stormily  without,  we  children  would 
gather  around  the  great  sheet-iron  stove  in  the  sitting- 
room  of  the  old  farm-house  and  beg  mother  to  tell  us 
stories  of  the  perils  and  hardships  of  her  pioneer  days; 
and  how,  invariably,  before  the  evening  was  over  some 
one  of  us  would  ask :  "Now,  mother,  please  do  tell  us,  just 
once  more,  how  you  escaped  from  the  wolves,  when  a 
girl,  by  coasting  down  Peek's  Hill." 

Mother  would  pause  in  her  knitting,  and,  with  a  smile, 
declare  that  she  had  already  told  us  the  story  "forty- 
eleven  times" ;  but,  just  to  please  so  attentive  an  audience, 
she  would  tell  it  even  once  more.  Then,  while  we  children 
crowded  closer  around  her  chair,  she  wouJd  resume  her 
knitting  and  begin: 


214  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

"When  your  grandfather  settled  in  this  part  of  Wis- 
consin I  was  a  little  girl  thirteen  years  old.  We  moved 
into  the  log  house  father  had  prepared  for  us  early  in 
the  spring,  and  by  fall  we  had  things  fixed  quite  comfort- 
able. The  winter  which  followed  was  one  of  unusual 
severity.  The  snow  fell,  early  in  November,  to  the  depth 
of  three  feet  on  the  level ;  and  the  greater  part  of  it  re- 
mained on  the  ground  all  winter.  This,  of  course,  made 
grand  coasting.  Father  made  for  me  a  sled  with  strong, 
hard,  smooth  hickory  runners,  and  big  enough  for  two  to 
ride  on.  I  declare,  I  don't  believe  there  ever  was  such 
another  sled  for  speed ' ' ;  and  mother  's  eyes  would  sparkle 
at  the  memories  the  thought  of  her  faithful  sled  recalled. 

"At  this  time  the  country  was  very  thinly  populated. 
Our  nearest  neighbor  was  Abner  Jones,  who  lived  some 
three  miles  away,  over  on  the  other  side  of  Peek's  Hill. 
Abner  Jones  had  a  little  girl,  named  Amanda,  about  my 
own  age,  and  we  two  children  soon  became  great  chums. 
After  a  big  snow-storm,  Amanda  and  I  would  go  coasting 
on  Peek's  Hill  whenever  we  could  gain  the  permission 
of  our  parents.  She  would  come  over  to  my  house,  or  I 
would  go  over  to  her  house,  and  together  we  would  go 
to  the  hill.  Amanda  had  no  sled ;  but  we  could  both  ride 
down  on  my  sled,  and  then  take  turns  pulling  it  up 
the  hill. 

"The  first  week  in  January  there  was  a  two-days' 
thaw,  followed  by  a  sharp  freeze.  This  caused  a  thick,  icy 
crust  to  form  on  top  of  the  remaining  snow,  which,  by  the 
next  day,  became  so  hard  and  strong  that  it  would  bear 
the  weight  of  a  man.  The  water  from  the  melted  snow 
ran  into  the  hollow  at  the  foot  of  Peek's  Hill,  and  made 
a  large,  deep  pond,  which  was  soon  covered  over  with 
a  sheet  of  gleaming  ice.  So,  you  see,  Peek's  Hill  had  be- 
come an  ideal  coasting-place;  for  we  could  slide  down 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  215 

its  steep  side  at  lightning  speed,  and  out  upon  the  ice, 
and  even  clear  across  the  pond,  a  good  three-quarters  of 
a  mile  from  the  top  of  the  hill. 

"On  one  Saturday  afternoon  following  a  thaw  and  a 
freeze-up,  I  secured  the  permission  of  my  parents  to  go 
over  to  Amanda's  and  get  her  to  come  sliding  with  me 
down  the  hill.  Father  cautioned  me  to  be  sure  and  be 
home  early,  because  the  wolves,  which  at  that  time  in- 
fested all  this  section  of  the  country,  were  said  to  be  get- 
ting very  bold  and  fierce,  especially  at  night  time;  and 
they  had  been  known,  when  driven  by  hunger,  to  run 
down  and  kill  horses  and  cattle  and  even  human  beings. 
Doubtless  the  cold  and  the  deep  snow  had  forced  many 
southward  from  the  great  woods  in  the  northern  part  of 
the  State.  But  the  caution  fell  on  idle  ears.  I  considered 
all  wolves  cowards;  besides,  I  was  not  going  to  hunt 
wolves;  I  was  bent  upon  coasting  down-hill;  and  I  did 
not  believe  any  wolf  would  be  foolish  enough  to  take 
the  trouble  to  run  down  a  little  girl  when  there  were 
plenty  of  chickens  and  cattle  to  be  had. 

"I  bundled  up  warmly,  and,  drawing  my  sled  behind 
me,  started  'cross  lots  over  Peek's  Hill  to  Amanda's 
house.  Peek's  Hill  stood  about  half-way  between  our 
two  homes.  I  left  the  heavy  sled  at  the  top  of  the  hill 
to  wait  our  return.  When  I  reached  the  house  I  found 
Amanda  laid  up  with  a  bad  cold,  and  of  course  her 
mother  would  not  allow  her  to  go  coasting ;  so  I  took  off 
my  things  to  stay  in  the  house  and  play  with  her.  Amanda 
had  two  rubber  dolls,  and  we  had  such  a  jolly  time  play- 
ing with  them  that  I  did  not  notice  how  fast  the  time  was 
passing  until  Mrs.  Jones  said,  'Come,  my  dear;  it  is  time 
you  were  going !'  Then  she  helped  to  bundle  me  up,  gave 
me  a  doughnut  hot  from  the  kettle,  and  saw  me  safely 
started  on  my  way  home. 


216  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

"The  sun  was  nearing  the  western  horizon.  I  glanced 
at  it  and  hurried  on.  The  first  part  of  my  way  lay  through 
heavy  woods;  then  came  an  opening,  in  the  midst  of 
which  rose  Peek's  Hill.  The  brow  of  the  hill  was  per- 
haps forty  rods  from  the  edge  of  the  woods,  the  steep 
incline  down  which  we  coasted  being  on  the  opposite 
side.  There  was  no  road,  only  a  path  worn  through  the 
snow  by  our  neighborly  feet. 

"I  had  passed  about  half-way  through  the  woods. 
when  suddenly  a  great  shaggy  wolf  bounded  out  into 
the  path  in  front  of  me.  The  wolf  stopped  and  glared 
hungrily  at  me  for  a  moment,  then  dashed  away  into  the 
brush.  A  moment  after,  I  heard  him  howling  a  few  rods 
in  the  rear.  To  my  inexpressible  horror,  the  howl  was 
quickly  answered  by  another,  and  then  another,  and  still 
another,  until  to  my  terrified  ears  the  woods  seemed  full 
of  the  ferocious  beasts. 

"There  was  no  need  of  telling  me  what  this  meant. 
I  was  old  enough  and  familiar  enough  with  wolf-nature 
to  know  that  the  first  wolf  was  calling  to  his  mates  to 
come  and  help  him  run  down  and  kill  his  quarry. 

"For  a  moment  I  stood  still  in  my  tracks,  listening  in 
trembling  horror  to  the  hideous  bowlings ;  then  I  gathered 
myself  together  and  ran.  Fear  lent  me  wings.  My  feet 
seemed  hardly  to  touch  the  snow.  And  yet  it  was  but  a 
minute  before  I  heard  the  rapid  pit-pat  of  the  feet  of  the 
wolves  on  the  hard  crust  of  the  snow  behind  me,  and 
knew  that  they  were  drawing  near.  I  reached  the  edge 
of  the  woods;  and,  as  I  dashed  into  the  opening,  I  cast 
a  hurried  glance  to  the  rear.  Several  great,  gaunt  wolves, 
running  neck  and  neck,  were  not  five  rods  behind  me. 
They  ran  with  their  heads  outstretched,  making  great 
bounds  over  the  hard  snow. 

"At  that  time  I  was  tall  for  my  age,  and  could  run 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  217 

like  a  deer.  The  sight  of  the  wolves,  so  close  behind  me, 
caused  me  to  redouble  my  efforts;  but,  in  spite  of  my 
speed,  as  I  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill,  I  could  hear  their 
panting  breaths,  so  near  had  they  come.  With  a  quick 
movement  of  my  hands  I  threw  off  my  heavy  cloth  cape 
and  woolen  hood.  At  the  same  instant  iny  eyes  caught 
sight  of  the  sled,  which  I  had  left  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 
Fortunately  it  was  standing  facing  the  steep  incline.  If 
I  could  reach  it  before  the  wolves  caught  me,  possibly  I 
might  yet  escape!  My  hood  and  cape  delayed  the  ani- 
mals for  an  instant;  but  they  were  again  upon  me  just 
as  I,  without  slacking  my  speed  in  the  least,  caught  the 
sled  up  into  my  hands  and  threw  myself  upon  it. 

"I  think  the  sudden  change  in  my  position,  just  as 
they  were  about  to  spring  on  me,  must  have  disconcerted 
the  wolves  for  an  instant;  and  before  they  recovered  I 
was  sliding  down  the  hill.  The  wolves  came  tumbling  and 
leaping  after  me,  howling  and  snarling.  At  the  start, 
the  hill  was  very  steep,  and  the  frozen  snow  was  as 
smooth  and  as  slippery  as  ice.  The  sled  kept  going  faster 
and  faster,  and  soon  I  had  the  inexpressible  delight .  of 
seeing  that  I  was  beginning  to  leave  the  wolves  behind. 
Far  below  I  saw  the  gleaming  ice  on  the  pond.  About 
half-way  down  the  hill  the  incline  was  considerably  less 
steep,  becoming  nearly  level  just  before  reaching  the 
pond.  When  I  came  to  this  part  of  the  hill  I  again 
glanced  behind,  and,  to  my  horror,  saw  that  the  wolves 
had  begun  to  gain  on  me,  and  were  now  not  more  than 
two  rods  away.  Evidently  the  sled  was  slowing  up. 
There  was  nothing  I  could  do  to  quicken  its  motion.  My 
fate  seemed  certain.  At  last  the  sled  reached  the  pond, 
and,  while  still  but  a  few  feet  from  the  bank,  I  suddenly 
felt  the  ice  bend  and  crack  beneath  me;  but  either  my 
speed  was  too  rapid  or  my  weight  too 'light,  or  both,  for 


218  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

I  did  not  break  through,  but  sped  swiftly  on  to  stronger 
ice  and  to  safety.  For  a  moment  the  slippery  ice  delayed 
the  wolves,  then  they  came  on  swifter  than  ever,  their 
sharp  claws  scratching  the  ice  like  knives.  Finally  1 
heard  a  crash,  and  glancing  back,  I  saw  a  struggling 
jumble  of  heads  and  paws,  and  I  knew  in  a  moment  that 
the  combined  weight  of  the  wolves  had  broken  through 
the  ice  at  the  weak  place  that  had  cracked  as  I  passed 
over  it. 

"I  left  the  sled  at  the  margin  of  the  pond,  and  hur- 
ried home,  where,  girl-like,  I  fell  fainting  into  my 
mother's  arms. 

"There,  children;  that  is  how  your  mother  escaped 
from  the  wolves  by  coasting  down  Peek's  Hill;  and  that 
great  wolfskin  robe  in  the  corner  is  one  of  the  very  hides 
that  father  took  from  the  six  bodies  after  he  had  dragged 
them  out  of  the  pond  the  next  morning* ';  and  mother, 
with  a  flush  on  her  dear  face,  would  point  to  the  familiar 
wolfskin  robe. 

Then  we  children  would  bring  the  great  robe  from 
its  place,  spread  it  out  on  the  floor  before  the  fire,  andv 
seating  ourselves  upon  it,  talk  in  low  voices  of  the  terri- 
ble ride  our  dear  mother  took  down  Peek's  Hill  when 
she  was  a  girl  and  was  chased  by  the  wolves. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  GROUP 


The  selections  here  placed  together  under  the  head,  "The 
University  Group,"  are  taken  from  the  works  of  authors  who 
have  taught  or  who  are  now  teaching  in  the  University  of  Wis- 
consin, and  who  may,  therefore,  be  said  both  to  have  influenced 
it  in  its  ideals  and  to  have  been  influenced  by  it.  The  work  of 
the  editors  in  this  section  of  the  volume  has  been  at  once 
peculiarly  pleasant  and  difficult.  It  has  been  pleasant  because, 
under  the  shadow  of  Wisconsin's  greatest  institution  of  learn- 
ing, there  has  come  into  birth  a  large  body  of  interesting,  in- 
structive, and  thoroughly  worth-while  literary  material.  The 
task  has  been  difficult  because  the  line  between  technical  and 
special  material  treated  in  a  literary  way,  and  what  may  be 
styled  pure  literature,  is  very  hard  to  draw.  The  editors  realize 
thoroughly  their  fallibility  in  the  making  of  these  selections. 
So  many  books  have  been  written,  and  so  many  contributions 
to  both  popular  and  technical  magazines  have  been  made  by 
teachers  in  the  University,  that  it  is  a  physical  impossibility 
even  to  scan  them  with  any  sure  result  of  fairness  or  equity 
in  the  selection  of  real  literature  from  the  great  mass  that  has 
been  produced.  The  most  that  is  claimed  for  the  present  selec- 
tions is  that  at  least  they  are  thoroughly  worth-while.  No 
doubt  a  search  covering  sufficient  time  and  dealing  with  a  suf- 
ficiently large  portion  of  the  output  of  the  University  would 
reveal  other  works  and  other  men  worthy  of  representation  in 
this  volume. 

There  is  another  consideration  that  should  be  mentioned  as 
rendering  the  task  of  the  present  editors  peculiarly  difficult: 
All  but  one  of  the  men  whose  works  are  mentioned  here  are 
now  living.  Aside  from  the  impossibility  of  wholly  pleasing 
any  man  by  a  selection  from  or  a  criticism  of  his  work,  there  is 
the  inevitable  fact  that  since  most  of  these  men  are  young, 
their  actual  relative  standing  as  producers  of  literature  is  con- 
stantly and  rapidly  changing.  As  one  reads  the  selections  in 
the  following  pages,  he  is  impressed  most  of  all  by  the  spirit 
of  buoyancy  and  youth  that  pervades  them.  Scarcely  a  single 
selection  here,  even  those  by  the  older  men.  bears  the  imprint 
of  satiety  or  completion.  All  are  pulsing  with  life,  hopefulness, 
buoyancy,  and  promise. 

Again,  in  a  book  of  this  nature,  selections  must  necessarily 


220  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

be  brief.  It  is  not  possible  to  give  really  adequate  representa- 
tion to  any  one  of  these  men,  since  the  laws  of  space  are  in- 
exorable. 

Perhaps  the  one  thing  common  to  all  sections  in  this  group 
— the  thing  which  will  most  readily  and  profoundly  impress 
even  the  youngest  reader — is  a  feeling  of  breadth  of  expe- 
rience, wide  observation,  earnest,  keen,  and  insatiable  desire 
for  truth, — in  fact,  all  the  opposites  of  narrowness,  prejudice, 
provincialism.  One  feels  at  once  that  the  writers  here  have 
read  widely  and  well,  that  they  have  a  fund  of  facts  gained  both 
from  books  and  at  first  hand  through  travel  and  observation, 
and  that  their  emotions  and  their  judgments  spring  from  this 
well  of  truth  as  they  see  it. 

PRESIDENT  VAN  HISE 

Charles  Richard  Van  Hise  needs  no  introduction  to  Wis- 
consin readers,  nor  indeed  to  readers  in  any  part  of  America. 
He  is  a  man  whom  our  state  may  proudly  call  her  own.  He 
was  born  in  Fulton  in  1857,  took  his  bachelor's  degree  in 
mechanical  engineering  at  his  own  State  University  in  1879 
and  his  Ph.  D.  there  in  1892,  and  throughout  his  whole  life, 
since  receiving  his  first  degree,  he  has  been  in  the  faculty  of 
his  own  Alma  Mater.  In  1903  he  was  made  its  president,  which 
position  he  now  holds. 

He  is  recognized  by  all  as  the  peer  of  any  man  in  our  coun- 
try as  an  authority  on  geology.  His  face,  through  photographs 
appearing  from  time  to  time  in  public  prints,  is  familiar  to  us 
all:  while  in  Madison,  and  indeed  in  most  cities  of  the  state. 
his  slightly  bent  figure,  with  the  face  peering  forward  as 
though  seeking  some  new  truth,  would  be  readily  recognized 
by  any  schoolboy. 

When  at  Madison  one  of  his  favorite  diversions  is  riding 
horseback,  and  no  doubt  in  many  of  his  geological  trips  horses 
have  been  his  most  dependable  friends. 

Needless  to  say,  his  interests  are  wide  and  varied.  Nothing 
that  affects  the  welfare  of  his  country  and  its  people  is  outside 
the  field  of  his  attention.  Through  his  membership  in  many 
learned  societies  and  his  connection  with  various  educational 
bodies  and  institutions  he  wields  an  influence  for  the  spirit  of 
truth  and  enlightenment  second  to  almost  none  in  the  United 
States. 

We  quote  here  a  brief  passage  from  his  writings  to  indicate 
something  of  the  range  of  interests  the  mind  and  heart  of  Wis- 
consin's most  active  citizen  find  time  in  which  to  interest  them- 
selves. While  President  Van  Rise's  interests  are  not  primarily 
literary,  any  man  of  fine  sensibilities  and  intelligence,  placed 
as  he  is,  at  the  center  of  momentous  events,  is  bound  to  have 
a  message  of  vital  import;  and  any  such  message,  clearly  and 
suitably  delivered,  is  literature. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  221 

THE  FUTURE  OF  MAN  IN  AMERICA 

By   Charles   R.   Van   Hise,    published    in    the   World's   Work.    Vol. 
XVIII,  p.  11718. 

*  *  *  It  is  clear  that  the  problem  of  the  conserva- 
tion of  our  natural  resources  is  an  interlocking  one.  If 
the  forests  are  conserved  in  the  rough  lands  and  moun- 
tains, the  streams  will  have  an  even  flow,  their  naviga- 
bility will  be  easily  maintained,  they  will  give  a  uniform 
water-power;  the  erosion  of  the  soil  will  be  lessened;  the 
bottom  lands  along  the  stream  will  not  be  flooded.  If 
the  water-powers  are  developed,  the  consumption  of  coal 
will  be  lessened.  If  the  elements  which  are  changed  from 
ore  to  metals  are  carefully  saved — not  being  allowed  to 
rust  or  to  be  lost— r-and  thus  utilized  again  and  again,  it 
will  not  be  necessary  to  take  from  the  mines  so  large  an 
amount  of  ore,  and  thus  less  coal  and  power  will  be  re- 
quired for  their  extraction.  The  conservation  of  one  re- 
source assists  in  the  conservation  of  all  others.  We 
should  work  with  the  agents  of  the  earth  rather  than 
reverse  their  work,  as  we  have  been  doing  since  American 
settlement  began. 

Intimately  connected  with  the  conservation  of  the 
natural  resources  is  the  conservation  of  humanity  itself. 
Just  as  we  have  been  reckless  in  the  use  of  our  natural 
resources,  so  as  a  nation  have  we  been  reckless  of  human 
life.  We  now  know  enough  in  reference  to  the  preven- 
tion and  cure  of  communicable  diseases,  we  know  enough 
in  reference  to  improving  the  conditions  under  which  the 
industries  are  carried  on,  so  that,  according  to  Professor 
Irving  Fisher,  the  average  human  life  might  be  length- 
ened by  a  third. 

So  far  as  we  permit  human  beings  to  be  created,  it  is 
plainly  our  duty  to  conserve  them  and,  so  far  as  possible, 


222  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

produce  a  happy  environment  for  them.  This  great  prob- 
lem of  the  conservation  of  humanity  is  mentioned  merely 
to  put  it  in  relation  with  the  problems  of  the  conservation 
of  our  natural  resources,  rather  than  to  discuss  it. 

How  long  shall  this  nation  endure  ?  Or,  more  exactly, 
how  long  shall  human  beings  occupy  this  land?  It  is  only 
within  the  past  two  centuries  that  the  lands  of  the  country 
have  been  subject  to  agriculture  upon  an  extensive  scale, 
and  the  main  drafts  upon  the  soil  of  this  country  have 
been  within  the  last  century.  We  should  think,  not  of  a 
hundred  years,  or  of  a  thousand  years,  but  of  hundreds 
of  thousands,  or  of  millions  of  years  of  development  of 
the  human  race.  There  is  no  reason,  from  a  geological 
point  of  view,  why  human  beings  may  not  live  upon  this 
earth  for  millions  of  years  to  come,  perhaps  many  millions 
of  years,  and,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  such  periods 
are  practically  infinite. 

These  considerations  impose  upon  us  as  our  most  fun- 
damental duty  the  transmission  of  the  heritage  of  our 
natural  resources  to  our  descendants  as  nearly  intact  as 
possible.  This  is  an  individual  responsibility,  as  well  as  a 
state  and  a  national  responsibility.  There's  a  strongly  de- 
veloped opinion  at  the  present  time  that  the  owners  of 
great  wealth,  and  especially  those  who  control  great  nat- 
ural resources,  should  act  as  trustees  for  the  nation.  This 
is  easy  to  see ;  but  every  man  who  owns  a  farm  is  equally 
a  trustee  to  the  nation  for  his  small  property.  If  at  the 
end  of  his  life  the  farm  goes  to  his  son  depleted  in  rich- 
ness, he  is  as  truly  faithless  to  his  trust  as  are  the  great 
interests,  some  of  which  think  only  of  present  gain,  and 
wastefully  exploit  the  natural  resources  of  the  country. 
Each  in  proportion  to  his  own  responsibility  is  a  traitor  to 
the  nation.  At  the  present  time,  fortunately,  this  sense 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  223 

of  stewardship  is  gaining  possession  of  those  who  control 
some  of  the  great  resources  of  the  nation.  As  yet,  there 
is  scarcely  a  glimmering  of  responsibility  in  the  case  of 
the  smaller  holder  of  natural  resources.  But  the  future  of 
the  nation  is  safe  only  when  small  and  large  holder  alike, 
from  the  man  who  owns  forty  acres  of  land  to  the  groups 
of  men  who  control  the  anthracite  of  the  nation,  shall 
administer  their  trust  primarily  for  the  benefit  of  the 
people  now  living  and  for  succeeding  generations  rather 
than  for  themselves. 

I  do  not  hesitate  to  assert  that,  from  the  point  of  view 
of  our  descendants,  this  question  of  conservation  of  our 
natural  resources  is  more  important  than  any  political  or 
social  question,  indeed,  more  important  than  all  political 
or  social  questions  upon  the  solution  of  which  we  are  now 
engaged.  Not  only  is  it  more  important,  but  it  is  more 
pressing,  for  already  our  unnecessary  losses  are  irre- 
mediable, and  the  situation  is  growing  steadily  worse. 

It  is  necessary  that  a  great  campaign  of  education  be 
inaugurated  at  once  with  reference  to  the  conservation 
of  the  soil,  just  as  there  has  been  a  campaign  of  educa- 
tion with  reference  to  the  conservation  of  the  forests.  The 
task  is  an  enormous  one,  indeed  vastly  greater  than  that 
carried  on  with  reference  to  our  other  resources,  be- 
cause of  the  fact  that  the  land  holdings  are  so  subdivided ; 
but  the  campaign  of  education  must  be  carried  on,  and, 
as  a  part  of  it,  the  laws  must  be  developed,  until  we  reach 
the  situation  where  no  man  dares  so  to  handle  his  land 
as  to  decrease  its  fertility.  If  present  methods  are  al- 
lowed to  continue,  it  is  certain  that  in  the  not  distant 
future  this  country  will  be  able  to  support  only  a  rela- 
tively sparse  population.  Only  by  the  conservation  of 
our  soil,  undiminisned  in  its  fertility,  can  we  hope  to  be 


224  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

able  to  provide  for  the  hundreds  of  millions  of  people  who, 
in  the  n^ar  future  in  the  United  States,  will  be  demanding 
food  and  clothing.  The  conservation  of  the  soil  is  the 
conservation  of  the  basal  asset  of  the  nation. 

Similarly,  the  campaign  of  education  in  reference  to 
the  forests  must  be  continued,  and  that  with  reference  to 
the  coal  and  mineral  resources  inaugurated;  for  only 
second  in  importance  to  the  conservation  of  the  soil  is  the 
economic  mining  and  use  of  coal,  the  conservation  of  the 
forests,  and  the  use  of  metals  with  the  minimum  waste. 


DEAN  BIRGE 

Edward  Asahel  Birge  was  born  In  Troy,  New  York,  in  1851. 
He  received  his  collegiate  training  at  Williams  and  Harvard 
and  was  made  instructor  in  natural  history  at  the  University 
of  Wisconsin  in  1875,  professor  in  1879,  and  Dean  of  the  Col- 
lege of  Letters  and  Science  In  1891,  which  position  he  has  held 
down  to  the  present  time,  except  for  three  years  when  he 
served  as  Acting  President. 

No  one  among  all  the  professors  is  better  known  to  the 
students  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin  than  Dean  Birge.  His 
active  figure,  his  firm  step,  his  (now)  white  hair,  which,  when 
the  writer  went  to  school,  was  but  iron-gray,  his  keen  eye, 
have  all  come  to  be  institutional  and  fundamental  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Wisconsin.  No  undergraduate  who  has  gone  tremb- 
lingly before  Dean  Birge  to  get  his  »excuse  for  being  late  to 
his  first  class  after  the  Christmas  holidays  will  need  a  descrip- 
tion of  Dean  Birge's  eye.  No  one  ever  thinks  of  trying  to 
deceive  the  Dean. 

But  withal,  nothing  could  be  more  unfair  than  to  give  the 
notion  that  keenness  is  the  only  quality  in  that  eye.  Kindness 
is  there,  too,  and  above  all,  justice.  We  who  were  under- 
graduates at  Madison,  always  think  of  Dean  Birge  as  a  scholar 
in  his  chosen  line  and  as  a  school  administrator.  It  will  be  a 
surprise  to  many  to  know  of  his  keen  interest  in  literature. 
The  writer  ventures  to  say  that  one  will  look  some  time  before 
he  finds,  from  the  pen  of  the  best-trained  specialist  in  English, 
a  fairer  estimate  of  Milton  than  the  one  here  given  by  this 
biologist. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  225 

MILTON 

Introductory  remarks  at  the  celebration  of  the  tercentenary  anni- 
versary of  Milton's  birth,  held  at  the  University  of  Wisconsin, 
December  9,  1908. 

Perhaps  I  am  wrong  in  permitting  myself  to  say  any- 
thing beyond  the  formal  words  which  belong  to  my  office 
tonight.  I  am  sure  that  I  have  no  right  to  join  in  the 
tribute  which  today  the  world  offers  to  Milton,  beyond 
that  which  belongs  to  every  one  who  did  not  need  to 
knock  the  dust  from  his  copy  of  the  poems  when  this 
tercentenary  anniversary  approached.  Yet  if  I  had  the 
power  to  praise,  I  should  attempt  the  task. 

"If  my  inferior  hand  or  voice  could  hint 

Inimitable  things" 

I  would  add  my  words  to  those  of  more  discriminating 
praise.  But  if  I  speak  at  all,  it  must  be  as  one  of  Milton's 
readers,  not  as  his  critic,  still  less  as  his  judge ;  not  even 
as  his  eulogist.  Perhaps  I  may  speak  also  as  a  descendant 
of  the  men  and  women  who  made  up  that  Puritan  com- 
monwealth from  which  he  was  born  and  to  which  at  bot- 
tom he  belonged;  as  a  descendant  of  men  and  women, 
stern,  god-fearing,  theology-loving,  yet  very  human; 
mostly  commonplace  people ;  not  sensitive  to  art  or  caring 
much  about  it,  yet  capable  of  being  profoundly  moved  by 
the  greatest  poetry.  I  may  speak  in  the  name  of  those 
who  for  generations  kept  Milton  second  only  to  the  Bible 
in  their  knowledge  and  as  belonging  to  a  generation  which 
today  finds  Milton  next  beyond  the  Bible  in  its  ignorance. 
I  may  represent  in  some  sort  that  public  which  long 
cherished  him  but  which  today  leaves  him  to  the  few 
lovers  of  poetry  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other,  must 
have  converted  him  to  a  post-mortem  belief  in  purgatory 
by  condemning  him  to  a  place  among  the  authors  as- 
signed for  "intensive  study'*  in  secondary  schools. 

I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  blame  my  fellows 


226  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

severely  for  their  present  neglect  of  Milton.  When  we 
read  the  introductory  lines  of  the  Aeneid — for  our  small 
Latin  extends  so  far  as  this — and  the  triumphant  final 
words:  "atque  altae  moenia  Romae"  " burst  out  into  sud- 
den blaze, ' '  then  in  that  quick  vision  of  the  walls  of  lofty 
Rome  we  catch  some  hint  of  that  spirit  which  made  the 
poem  the  bible  of  the  Roman  state.  And  when  we  find 
the  introduction  to  Paradise  Lost  closing  with  the  promise 
that  the  author  will  " justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man," 
we  feel  that  temper  in  the  poem  which  made  it  at  once 
the  holier  bible  of  the  Puritan  and  prevented  it  from  be- 
coming the  bible  of  the  English  speaking  race  for  all 
time. 

But  we  of  the  stock  from  which  Milton  came  have  not 
all  deserted  the  poet.  Some  of  us  still  read  his  verse, 
though  not  for  the  poem  so  much  as  for  the  poetry,  which 
in  his  hands  became  the 

"golden  key 

That  opes  the  palace  of  eternity." 

We  do  not  find  our  Milton  in  his  earlier  poems;  for, 
charming  as  they  are,  they  lack  that  note  of  strong  per- 
sonality and  endless  power  which  our  ear  first  catches  in 

Lycidas : 

"Ay  me!     Whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 
Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled, 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Where  thou,  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide 
Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 
Or  whether  thou  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  Mount 
Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold — " 
Here  is  the  true  music  of  Milton's  verse;  a  deep,  long- 
drawn  note,  a  solemn  cadence ;  far  from  the  '  *  wanton  heed 
and  giddy  cunning*'  of  the  music  which  untwists  the 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  227 

chains  of  harmony,  and  equally  distant  from  heaven's 
calm  serenity  of  choral  symphonies  and  "undisturbed 
song  of  pure  content. ' '  This  music  sounds  in  the  Paradise 
Lost,  less  emotional  perhaps,  but  purer  and  higher;  ap- 
pealing to  ear  and  soul  in  complex  and  interwoven  har- 
monies of  thought  and  verse.  We  hear  it  still  in  the 
Samson;  austere,  intellectualized ;  the  scheme  of  music 
rather  than  music  itself;  still  resonant  though  not  re- 
sounding. We  have  no  skill  to  compare  this  music  with 
that  of  other  poets;  but  this  we  know,  that  while  its 
harmonies  linger  in  our  ears  all  other  verse  rings  poor  and 
thin.  We  hear  no  voice  but  Milton's  which  can  bear  the 
praise  of  his  own  words:  "praesentem  sonat  vox  ipsa 
Deum" — its  very  note  proclaims  the  present  God. 

Nor  is  this  all.  Milton's  verse  moves  us  as  does  that 
of  no  other  poet.  I  do  not  mean  that  it  moves  us  to 
laughter  or  even  to  tears.  I  mean  rather  that  it  moves 
our  souls  bodily,  if  such  a  thing  may  be.  As  we  read  it, 
we  find  ourselves  committed  to  a  power  not  so  much 
buoyant  as  illimitable.  The  verse  bears  us  aloft  and 
carries  us  forward ;  not  swiftly,  slowly  rather ;  advancing, 
to  our  increased  happiness,  not  directly,  but  with  many  a 
pause  and  turn ;  yet  steadily  and  powerfully  pressing  on 
toward  a  goal  certain  and  far-seen.  We  know  not 
whether  Milton's  poetry  accomplished 

"Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme"; 
but  at  least  we  must  confess  for  ourselves  that  it  illumines 
our  darkness  and  raises  and  supports  us  as  does  no  other 
verse. 

And  so  we,  who  in  some  far  off  sense  belong  to  Mil- 
ton's people,  join  tonight  with  you  who  have  the  right 
to  praise  his  name.  Yet  it  may  be  that  in  so  doing  we 
are  thinking  rather  of  ourselves  than  of  any  tribute  that 


228  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

you  or  we  can  bring  to  him.  We  know  that  your  com- 
memorative words  will  renew  our  knowledge  and  quicken 
our  hearts.  We  hope  that,  hearing  them,  we  may  feel  the 
presence  of  those 

"immortal  shades 
Of  bright  aerial  spirits" 

who  ever  attend  Milton 's  verse;  perhaps  we  even  hope 
that  our  clearer  vision  may  catch  some  new  glimpse  of 
Milton  himself — our  poet — wearing  "the  crown  that 
Vertue  gives'*  and  sitting 

"Amongst  the  enthroned  gods  on  sainted  seats." 


RASMUS  BJ8RNE  ANDERSON 

"Rasmus  B.  Anderson"  is  a  name  that  has  been  familiar 
to  all  University  of  Wisconsin  students  and  to  all  people  of 
Scandinavian  parentage  throughout  the  Northwest  for  at  least 
two  score  years.  This  fine  old  man  is  a  true  son  of  Wisconsin. 
He  was  born  in  Albion,  Wisconsin,  of  Norwegian  parents,  in 
1846.  He  received  an  honorary  A.  B.  from  the  University  of 
Wisconsin  in  1885,  and  the  title  of  L.  L.  D.  from  the  same  in- 
stitution in  1888.  He  was  professor  of  Scandinavian  languages 
and  literature  here  from  1875  to  1883,  when  he  resigned  to 
serve  as  minister  to  Denmark.  He  has  translated  scores  of 
selections  from  Scandinavian  languages  into  English,  and  is 
the  editor  of  almost  countless  articles  of  an  historical,  linguis- 
tic, literary,  and  philosophical  nature.  Now,  at  the  age  of 
seventy,  his  friends  know  him  as  a  kindly,  busy  man  with  an 
active  and  keen  interest  in  all  about  him.  He  is  at  present 
serving  in  an  editorial  capacity  on  the  boards  of  different 
journals  and  encyclopedias. 

The  selection  here  given  was  one  of  the  earliest  that  he 
published.  It  breathes  the  spirit  of  enthusiasm  and  love  for 
the  land  of  his  fathers,  but  at  the  same  time  shows  his  careful 
citation  of  evidence  to  support  his  every  assertion. 

BJARNE  HERJULFSON,   086 

From  "AMERICA,  NOT  DISCOVERED  BY  COLUMBUS."  Chapter 
X.  By  Rasmus  B.  Anderson.  Copyright,  1883,  by  S.  C.  Grlggs 
A  Co. 

In  the  year  986,  the  same  year  that  he  returned  from 
Greenland,  the  above-named  Erik  the  Red  moved  from 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  22$ 

Iceland  to  Greenland,  and  among  his  numerous  friends, 
who  accompanied  him,  was  an  Icelander  by  name  Herjulf . 
Herjulf  had  a  son  by  name  Bjarne,  who  was  a  man  of 
enterprise  and  fond  of  going  abroad,  and  who  possessed 
a  merchant-ship,  with  which  he  gathered  wealth  and  repu- 
tation. He  used  to  be  by  turns  a  year  abroad  and  a  year 
at  home  with  his  father.  He  chanced  to  be  away  in 
Norway  when  his  father  moved  over  to  Greenland,  and 
on  returning  to  Iceland  he  was  so  much  disappointed  on 
hearing  of  his  father's  departure  with  Erik,  that  he  would 
not  unload  his  ship,  but  resolved  to  follow  his  old  custom 
and  take  up  his  abode  with  his  father.  "Who  will  go  with 
me  to  Greenland?"  he  said  to  his  men.  "We  will  all  go 
with  you,"  replied  the  men.  "But  we  have  none  of  us 
ever  been  on  the  Greenland  Sea  before,"  said  Bjarne. 
"We  mind  not  that,"  said  the  men, — so  away  they  sailed 
for  three  days  and  lost  sight  of  Iceland.  Then  the  wind 
failed.  After  that  a  north  wind  and  fog  set  in,  and  they 
knew  not  where  they  were  sailing  to.  This  lasted  many 
days,  until  the  sun  at  length  appeared  again,  so  that  they 
could  determine  the  quarters  of  the  sky,  and  lo!  in  the 
horizon  they  saw,  like  a  blue  cloud,  the  outlines  of  an 
unknown  land.  They  aproached  it.  They  saw  that  it 
was  without  mountains,  was  covered  with  wood,  and  that 
there  were  small  hills  inland.  Bjarne  saw  that  this  did 
not  answer  to  the  description  of  Greenland;  he  knew  ho 
was  too  far  south;  so  he  left  the  land  on  the  larboard 
side  and  sailed  northward  two  days,  when  they  got  sight 
of  land  again.  The  men  asked  Bjarne  if  this  was  Green- 
land; but  he  said  it  was  not,  "For  in  Greenland,"  he 
said,  "there  are  great,  snowy  mountains;  but  this  land  is 
flat  and  covered  with  trees."  They  did  not  go  ashore, 
but  turning  the  bow  from  the  land,  they  kept  the  sea  with 


230  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

a  fine  breeze  from  the  southwest  for  three  days,  when  a 
third  land  was  seen.  Still  Bjarne  would  not  go  ashore,  for 
it  was  not  like  what  had  been  reported  of  Greenland.  .So 
they  sailed  on,  driven  by  a  violent  southwest  wind,  and 
after  four  days  they  reached  a  land  which  suited  the 
description  of  Greenland.  Bjarne  was  not  deceived,  for 
it  was  Greenland,  and  he  happened  to  land  close  to  the 
place  where  his  father  had  settled. 

It  cannot  be  determined  with  certainty  what  parts  of 
the  American  coast  Bjarne  saw;  but  from  the  circum- 
stances of  the  voyage,  the  course  of  the  winds,  the  direc- 
tion of  the  currents,  and  the  presumed  distance  between 
each  sight  of  land,  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  first 
land  that  Bjarne  saw  in  the  year  986  was  the  present 
Nantucket,  one  degree  south  of  Boston ;  the  second  Nova 
Scotia,  and  the  third  Newfoundland.  Thus  Bjarne  Her- 
julfson  was  the  first  European  whose  eyes  beheld  any  part 
of  the  present  New  England. 

REUBEN  GOLD  THWAITES 

Reuben  Gold  Thwaites  was  born  in  Massachusetts  in  1853. 
When  twenty-three  years  of  age  he  came  to  Madison,  Wiscon- 
sin, to  act  as  editor  of  the  Wisconsin  State  Journal.  Just  ten 
years  later  he  was  made  secretary  and  superintendent  of  the 
State  Historical  Society  of  Wisconsin,  in  which  capacity  he 
served  until  his  death  in  1913. 

All  students  of  history  in  the  University  of  Wisconsin 
knew  Mr.  Thwaites,  for  no  doubt  partly  through  his  influence, 
instructors  in  history  impressed  upon  the  young  men  and 
women  in  their  classes  the  conception  of  history  as  being  al- 
ways in  the  making.  To  many  a  student  who  had  always 
thought  of  history  as  being  something  written  in  books  this 
new  conception  came  as  a  great  awakening.  He  urged  upon 
all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  the  importance  of  recording 
local  events,  and  he  had  an  extraordinarily  keen  sense  of  ten- 
dencies and  activities  in  his  state  that  were  really  vital  and 
significant. 

The  State  Historical  Library  at  Madison  contains  thousands 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  231 

of  newspaper  clippings,  little  pamphlets,  letters  by  obscure 
people,  apparently  unimportant  legal  or  official  documents  that 
were  gathered  by  Reuben  Gold  Thwaites,  and  that  now  form 
the  priceless  sources  of  the  history  of  the  state.  The  services 
of  such  a  man  to  his  community  cannot  be  reckoned  commer- 
cially. The  state  knows  itself  better,  understands  its  ideals 
more  thoroughly,  and  furnishes  to  its  students  a  fund  of  incon- 
trovertible facts  on  which  to  base  their  study,  because  it  pos- 
sessed a  citizen  like  Reuben  Gold  Thwaites. 

THE  DISCOVERY  OF  WISCONSIN 

From   "STORIES  OF  THE  BADGER  STATE,"  pp.   27-32.     By  Reu- 
ben Gold  Thwaites.     Copyright,  1900,  by  the  author. 

Among  the  many  queer  stories  brought  [to  Quebec] 
by  these  fierce,  painted  barbarians  [the  Indians]  was  one 
which  told  of  a  certain  "Tribe  of  the  Sea"  dwelling  far 
away  on  the  western  banks  of  the  "upper  waters,"  a 
people  who  had  come  out  of  the  West,  no  man  knew 
whence.  In  those  early  days,  Europeans  still  clung  to 
the  notion  which  Columbus  had  always  held,  that  America 
was  but  an  eastern  projection  of  Asia.  This  is  the  reason 
that  our  savages  were  called  Indians,  for  the  discoverers 
of  America  thought  they  had  merely  reached  an  outlying 
portion  of  India;  they  had  no  idea  that  this  was  a  great 
and  new  continent.  Governor  Champlain,  and  after  him 
Governor  Prontenac,  and  the  great  explorer  La  Salle,  all 
supposed  that  they  could  reach  India  and  China,  already 
known  to  travelers  to  the  east,  by  persistently  going  west- 
ward. When,  therefore,  Champlain  heard  of  these  strange 
Men  of  the  Sea,  he  at  once  declared  they  must  be  the 
long-sought  Chinese.  He  engaged  Nicolet,  in  whom  he 
had  great  confidence,  to  go  out  and  find  them,  wherever 
they  were,  making  a  treaty  of  peace  with  them,  and  secure 
their  trade. 

Upon  the  first  day  of  July,  1634,  Nicolet  left  Quebec, 
a  passenger  in  the  second  of  two  fleets  of  canoes  con- 
taining Indians  from  the  Ottawa  valley,  who  had  come 


232  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

down  to  the  white  settlements  to  trade.  Among  his  fel- 
low passengers  were  three  adventurous  Jesuit  mission- 
aries, who  were  on  their  way  to  the  country  of  the  Huron 
tribe,  east  of  Lake  Huron.  Leaving  the  priests  at  Al- 
lumettes  Island,  he  continued  up  the  Ottawa,  then  crossed 
over  to  Lake  Nipissing,  visited  old  friends  among  the 
Indians  there,  and  descended  French  Creek,  which  flows 
from  Lake  Nipissing  into  Georgian  Bay,  a  northeastern 
arm  of  Lake  Huron.  On  the  shores  of  the  great  lake,  he 
engaged  seven  Hurons  to  paddle  his  long  birch-bark  canoe 
and  guide  him  to  the  mysterious  "Tribe  of  the  Sea." 

Slowly  they  felt  their  way  along  the  northern  shores 
of  Lake  Huron,  where  the  pine  forests  sweep  majestically 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  or  crown  the  bold  cliffs,  while 
southward  the  green  waters  of  the  inland  sea  stretch 
away  to  the  horizon.  Storms  too  severe  for  their  frail 
craft  frequently  detained  them  on  the  shore,  and  daily 
they  sought  food  in  the  forest.  The  savage  crew,  tiring 
of  exercise,  and  overcome  by  superstitious  fears,  would 
fain  have  abandoned  the  voyage ;  but  the  strong,  energetic 
master  bore  down  all  opposition.  At  last  they  reached  the 
outlet  of  Lake  Superior,  the  forest-girt  Strait  of  St.  Mary, 
and  paddled  up  as  far  as  the  falls,  the  Sault  Ste.  Marie, 
as  it  came  to  be  called  by  the  Jesuit  missionaries.  Here 
there  was  a  large  village  of  Algonkins,  where  the  explorer 
tarried,  refreshing  his  crew  and  gathering  information 
concering  the  "Tribe  of  the  Sea."  The  explorers  do  not 
appear  to  have  visited  Lake  Superior;  but,  bolder  than 
before,  they  set  forth  to  -the  southwest,  and  passing  gayly 
through  the  island-dotted  Straits  of  Mackinac,  now  one  of 
the  world's  greatest  highways,  were  soon  upon  the  broad 
waters  of  Lake  Michigan,  of  which  Nicolet  was  probably 
the  first  white  discoverer. 


ONOS    QNV    AHOJLS    NI    NISNOOSIM 

Clinging  still  to  the  northern  shore,  camping  in  the 
dense  woods  at  night  or  when  threatened  by  storm,  Nico- 
let  rounded  far-fetching  Point  Detour  and  landed  upon 
the  shores  of  Bay  de  Noquet,  a  northern  arm  of  .Green 
Bay.  Another  Algonkin  tribe  dwelt  here,  with  whom  the 
persistent  explorer  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace,  and  they 
gave  him  further  news  of  the  people  he  sought.  Next  he 
stopped  at  the  mouth  of  the  Menominee  River,  now  the 
northeast  boundary  between  Wisconsin  and  Michigan, 
where  the  Menominee  tribe  lived.  Another  council  was 
held,  more  tobacco  was  smoked,  and  one  of  Nieolet's 
Huron  companions  was  sent  forward  to  notify  the  Winne- 
bagoes  at  the  mouth  of  the  Fox  River  that  the  great  white 
chief  was  approaching;  for  the  uncouth  Winnebagoes 
were  the  far-famed  " Tribe  of  the  Sea"  whom  Nicolet  had 
traveled  so  far  to  find.  •  »  * 

By  this  time,  Nicolet  had  his  doubts  about  meeting 
Chinese  at  Green  Bay.  As,  however,  he  had  brought  with 
him  "a  grand  robe  of  China  damask,  all  strewn  with 
flowers,  and  birds  of  many  colors,"  such  as  Chinese  man- 
darins are  supposed  to  wear,  he  put  it  on;  and  when  he 
landed  on  the  shore  of  Fox  River,  where  is  now  the  city 
of  Green  Bay,  strode  forward  into  the  group  of  waiting, 
skin-clad  savages,  discharging  the  pistols  which  he  held 
in  either  hand.  Women  and  children  fled  in  terror  to  the 
wigwams;  and  the  warriors  fell  down  and  worshipped 
this  Manitou  (or  spirit)  who  carried  with  him  thunder 
and  lightning. 

"The  news  of  his  coming,"  says  the  old  Jesuit 
chronicler,  "quickly  spread  to  the  places  round  about, 
and  there  assembled  four  or  five  thousand  men.  Each  of 
the  Chief  men  made  a  feast  for  him,  and  at  one  of  these 
banquets  they  served  at  least  six-score  Beavers."  »  *  * 


234  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

For  various  reasons,  it  was  nearly  thirty  years  before 
another  visit  was  made  by  white  men  to  Wisconsin.  Nico- 
let  himself  soon  settled  down  at  the  new  town  of  Three 
Rivers,  on  the  shores  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  between 
Quebec  and  Montreal,  as  the  agent  and  interpreter  there 
of  the  great  fur  trade  company.  He  was  a  very  useful 
man  both  to  the  company  and  to  the  missionaries ;  for  he 
had  great  influence  over  the  Indians,  who  loved  him  sin- 
cerely, and  he  always  exercised  this  influence  for  the  good 
of  the  colony  and  of  religion.  He  was  drowned  in  the 
month  of  October,  1642,  while  on  his  way  to  release  a 
poor  savage  prisoner  who  was  being  maltreated  by  Indians 
in  the  neighborhood. 


FREDERICK  JACKSON  TURNER 

Born  in  Portage,  Wisconsin,  in  1861,  Frederick  J.  Turner 
was  graduated  from  the  State  University  in  1884,  and  six  years 
later  he  received  his  Ph.  D.  from  Johns  Hopkins.  Meantime 
he  had  spent  some  of  the  years  in  teaching  in  his  Alma  Mater. 
He  was  made  full  professor  of  history  in  1892,  which  position 
he  held  until  1910,  when  Harvard  University  called  him. 

Few  men  on  "The  Hill"  were  more  beloved  by  the  students 
than  "Freddie"  Turner.  His  courses  were  crowded,  and  his 
lectures  were  exceedingly  popular.  Perhaps  if  his  students 
had  known  that  from  1885  to  1888  he  served  as  tutor  in  rhet- 
oric and  oratory  at  Wisconsin,  they  would  not  have  wondered 
so  much  at  the  eloquence  of  his  lectures. 

But  eloquence  was  not  the  main  feature  of  his  lectures, 
nor  yet  the  quality  he  most  desired  in  the  recitations  of  his 
students.  Woe  betide  the  young  man  who  had  spent  too  little 
time  upon  the  "constitutional  period,"  and  who  tried  to  give 
this  argus-eyed  instructor  the  impression  of  deep  and  careful 
study.  The  bubble  was  sure  to  be  pricked,  and  the  discom- 
fiture of  the  ambitious  one  was,  while  frequently  laughable, 
always  unmistakable.  One  never  knew  when  he  was  going  to 
be  "quizzed"  in  "Freddie's"  class.  But  one  thing  was  certain: 
that  was  that  he  would  be  asked  a  question,  and  when  that 
question  'came  it  was  best,  from  every  point  of  view,  to  be  able 
to  do  good,  clear,  straight  thinking,  based  on  a  fund  of  re- 
ligiously acquired  information.  One  quality  that  Professor 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  235 

Turner  exacted  of  himself  and  others  was  that  assertions  must 
be  backed  up  by  evidence.  Perhaps  that  is  not  the  least  im- 
portant reason  why  the  article  from  which  a  selection  is  here 
made  created  as  profound  a  change  in  the  general  attitude 
toward  American  history  as  any  single  word  on  that  subject 
that  has  ever  been  spoken. 

THE   SIGNIFICANCE   OP   THE   FRONTIER  IN   AMERICAN 

HISTORY 

From  "THE  ANNUAL  REPORT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  HISTORICAL 
ASSOCIATION"  for  1893,  pp.  199-227.  By  Professor  Frederick 
J.  Turner,  then  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin. 

In  a  recent  bulletin  of  the  Superintendent  of  the  Cen- 
sus for  1890  appear  these  significant  words :  ' '  Up  to  and 
including  1880,  the  country  had  a  frontier  of  settlement, 
but  at  present  the  unsettled  area  has  been  so  broken  into 
by  isolated  bodies  of  settlement  that  there  can  hardly  be 
said  to  be  a  frontier  line.  In  the  discussion  of  its  extent, 
its  westward  movement,  etc.,  it  cannot,  therefore,  any 
longer  have  a  place  in  the  census  reports.'*  This  brief 
official  statement  marks  the  closing  of  a  great  historic 
movement.  Up  to  our  own  day  American  history  has 
been  in  a  large  degree  the  history  of  the  colonization  of 
the  Great  West.  The  existence  of  an  area  of  free  land, 
its  continuous  recession,  and  the  advance  of  American 
settlement  westward,  explain  American  development. 

Behind  institutions,  behind  constitutional  forms  and 
modifications,  lie  the  vital  forces  that  call  these  organs 
into  life  and  shape  them  to  meet  changing  conditions. 
The  peculiarity  of  American  institutions  is  the  fact  that 
they  have  been  compelled  to  adapt  themselves  to  the 
changes  of  an  expanding  people — to  the  changes  involved 
in  crossing  a  continent,  in  winning  a  wilderness,  and  in 
developing  at  each  area  of  this  progress  out  of  the  primi- 
tive economical  and  political  conditions  of  the  frontier 
into  the  complexity  of  city  life.  Said  Calhoun  in  1817, 


236  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

"We  are  great,  and  rapidly — I  was  about  to  say  fearfully 
— growing!"  So  saying,  he  touched  the  distinguishing 
feature  of  American  life.  All  peoples  show  development ; 
the  germ  theory  of  politics  has  been  sufficiently  em- 
phasized. In  the  case  of  most  nations,  however,  the  de- 
velopment has  occurred  in  a  limited  area ;  and  if  the  na- 
tion has  expanded,  it  has  met  other  growing  peoples  whom 
it  has  conquered.  But  in  the  case  of  the  United  States 
we  have  a  different  phenomenon.  Limiting  our  attention 
to  the  Atlantic  Coast,  we  have  the  familiar  phenomenon 
of  the  evolution  of  institutions  in  a  limited  area,  such  as 
the  rise  of  representative  government ;  the  differentiation 
of  simple  colonial  governments  into  complex  organs ;  the 
progress  from  primitive  industrial  society,  without  divi- 
sion of  labor,  up  to  manufacturing  civilization.  But  we 
have  in  addition  to  this  a  recurrence  of  the  process  of 
evolution  in  each  western  area  reached  in  the  process  of 
expansion.  Thus  American  development  has  exhibited 
not  merely  advance  along  a  single  line,  but  a  return  to 
primitive  conditions  on  a  continually  advancing  frontier 
line,  and  a  new  development  for  that  area.  American 
social  development  has  been  continually  beginning  over 
again  on  the  frontier.  This  perennial  rebirth,  this  fluidity 
of  American  life,  this  expansion  westward  with  its  new 
opportunities,  its  continuous  touch  with  the  simplicity  of 
primitive  society,  has  furnished  the  forces  dominating 
American  character.  The  true  point  of  view  in  the  history 
of  this  nation  is  not  the  Atlantic  Coast,  it  is  the  Great 
West.  Even  the  slavery  struggle,  which  is  made  so  ex- 
clusive an  object  of  attention  by  writers  like  Professor 
von  Hoist,  occupies  its  important  place  in  American  his- 
tory because  of  its  relation  to  westward  expansion. 

In  this  advance,  the  frontier  is  the  outer  edge  of  the 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  237 

wave — the  meeting  point  between  savagery  and  civiliza- 
tion. Much  has  been  written  about  the  frontier  from 
the  point  of  view  of  border  warfare  and  the  chase,  but 
as  a  field  for  the  serious  study  of  the  economist  and  the 
historian  it  has  been  neglected. 

The  American  frontier  is  sharply  distinguished  from 
the  European  frontier — a  fortified  boundary  line  running 
through  dense  populations.  The  most  significant  thing 
about  the  American  frontier  is,  that  it  lies  at  the  hither 
edge  of  free  land.  In  the  census  reports  it  is  treated  as 
the  margin  of  that  settlement  which  has  a  density  of 
two  or  more  to  the  square  mile.  The  term  is  an  elastic 
one,  and  for  our  purposes  does  not  need  sharp  definition. 
We  shall  consider  the  whole  frontier  belt,  including  the 
Indian  country  and  outer  margin  of  the  "settled 
area,1'  of  the  census  reports.  This  paper  will  make  no 
attempt  to  treat  the  subject  exhaustively;  its  aim  is 
simply  to  call  attention  to  the  frontier  as  a  fertile  field 
for  investigation,  and  to  suggest  some  of  the  problems 
which  arise  in  connection  with  it.  *  * 

The  stubborn  American  environment  is  there  with  its 
imperious  summons  to  accept  its  conditions ;  the  inherited 
ways  of  doing  things  are  also  there ;  and  yet,  in  spite  of 
environment,  and  in  spite  of  custom,  each  frontier  did 
indeed  furnish  a  new  field  of  opportunity,  a  gate  of 
escape  from  the  bondage  of  the  past ;  and  freshness,  and 
confidence,  and  scorn  of  older  society,  impatience  of  its 
restraints  and  its  ideas,  and  indifference  to  its  lessons, 
have  accompanied 'the  frontier.  What  the  Mediterranean 
Sea  was  to  the  Greeks,  breaking  the  bond  of  custom, 
offering  new  experiences,  calling  out  new  institutions  and 
activities,  that,  and  more,  the  ever  retreating  frontier 
has  been  to  the  United  States  directly,  and  to  the  nations 


238  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

of  Europe  more  remotely.  And  now,  four  centuries  from 
the  discovery  of  America,  at  the  end  of  a  hundred  years 
of  life  under  the  Constitution,  the  frontier  has  gone,  and 
with  its  going  has  closed  the  first  period  of  American 
history. 


PAUL  SAMUEL  REINSCH 

Professor  Reinsch  was  born  in  Milwaukee  in  1869.  He  re- 
ceived his  A.  B.  from  the  University  of  Wisconsin  in  1892  and 
his  doctorate  in  1898.  He  had  the  advantage  of  studying  at 
the  University  of  Berlin  and  at  Rome  and  Paris.  He  was  assist- 
ant professor  of  political  science  at  his  Alma  Mater  from  1899 
to  1901,  and  full  professor  from  1901  to  1913,  except  for  two 
years.  1911  and  1912,  when  he  held  the  Roosevelt  professor- 
ship at  the  Universities  of  Berlin  and  Leipzig.  Since  1913,  he 
has  been  Envoy  Extraordinary  and  Minister  Plenipotentiary  to 
China.  His  present  address  is  the  American  Legation,  Peking, 
China. 

Few  men  have  had  the  advantages  both  in  study  and  expe- 
rience that  have  come  to  Dr.  Reinsch,  and  few  have  met  these 
advantages  with  keener  love  for  truth  and  desire  for  knowl- 
edge. He  is  a  member  of  several  learned  societies  of  law  and 
political  science,  and  is  the  author  of  many  books  on  these  and 
related  subjects.  Some  of  these  books  have  been  translated 
into  Japanese,  Chinese,  Spanish,  and  German.  The  selection 
given  here  is  taken  from  "Intellectual  Currents  in  the  Far 
East,"  and  well  illustrates  the  fact  that  deep  learning  and  per- 
fect clearness  of  expression  may  well  go  together  in  a  literary 
production. 


THE  NEW  EDUCATION  OF  CHINA 

From  "INTELLECTUAL,  AND  POLITICAL  CURRENTS  IN  THE 
FAR  EAST."  Chapter  V.  By  Paul  S.  Reinsch.  Copyright 
1911,  by  the  author. 

*  *  *  The  zeal  of  the  older  teachers  in  trying  to 
catch  up  with  the  foreign-trained  men  is  at  times  almost 
pathetic.  In  most  towns  a  "teachers'  discussion  class" 
has  been  organized.  These  classes  were  established  by 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  239 

the  initiative  of  the  teachers  themselves,  in  order  that 
they  might  acquire  the  knowledge  necessary  for  ele- 
mentary instruction  in  the  new  branches.  With  great 
eagerness  these  men,  varying  in  age  from  thirty-five  to 
fifty-five  years,  will  follow  the  instruction  given  by  some 
youngster  in  the  early  twenties  who  has  been  fortunate 
enough  to  have  had  a  course  in  Japan  or  the  West.  While 
the  necessary  superficiality  of  such  a  system  must  be 
deplored,  the  mere  fact  of  this  instruction  being  so  eagerly 
sought  by  the  teachers  is  the  best  proof  that  the  old 
order,  recognizing  its  inevitable  fate,  has  abandoned  the 
hope  of  regaining  its  former  supremacy  and  is  hurrying 
to  adapt  itself  to  the  new  conditions. 

This  enthusiasm  also  finds  expression  in  great  indi- 
vidual sacrifices,  and  even  in  martyrdom.  Private  gifts 
are  made  in  large  numbers,  even  without  the  solicitation 
of  officials  or  the  hope  of  rewards.  Within  the  last  few 
years,  it  has  frequently  happened  that  some  person  de- 
sirous of  founding  a  school,  and  lacking  the  means  to  do  so, 
has  in  truly  Oriental  fashion  appealed  to  his  or  her  towns- 
men by  committing  suicide,  after  writing  out  a  touching 
request  for  aid  in  the  new  cause.  A  Tartar  lady  at 
Hankow  who  had  founded  a  school  for  girls  was  unable 
to  secure  sufficient  money  for  carrying  on  the  work  of 
the  institution.  In  order  to  secure  her  object,  she  de- 
termined to  commit  suicide.  In  her  farewell  letter,  she 
stated  that  she  felt  the  need  of  the  school  so  much  that 
she  would  sacrifice  her  own  life  and  thus  impress  the  need 
upon  those  who  were  able  to  give  money.  Her  r^.t  had 
the  result  desired,  as  after  her  death  money  came  flowing 
in  from  many  sources.  In  most  cases,  fortunately,  the 
appeals  for  assistance  are  successful  without  going  to 
such  extremes.  Thus,  the  wife  of  a  district  magistrate 


240  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

in  Honan,  having  decided  to  establish  a  school  for  girls, 
wrote  a  circular  setting  forth  that  a  girl,  if  un- 
educated, brings  six  kinds  of  injury  to  herself  and  three 
kinds  to  her  children.  The  subtlety  of  her  arguments 
fascinated  the  city  folk,  and  sufficient  funds  for  her  pur- 
pose were  soon  provided. 

The  introduction  of  female  education,  which  militates 
against  the  most  deep-seated  prejudices  of  the  Chinese 
race,  has  called  for  greater  personal  sacrifices  than  any 
other  part  of  educational  reform.  Some  powerful  patrons 
have  indeed  arisen.  H.  E.  Tuan  Fang  urged  the  impor- 
tance of  this  reform  upon  the  Empress  herself,  with  the 
result  that,  before  her  death,  the  great  lady  established 
a  school  for  female  education  in  the  capital.  Educated 
women  are  making  a  strong  plea  for  the  education  of  their 
sisters.  Doctor  King  Ya-mei,  herself  educated  in  the 
West,  points  out  that  those  who  lament  the  superficial 
nature  of  the  present  reforms  forget  that  "half  the 
nation,  whose  special  function  it  is  to  put  into  practice 
the  ideas  governing  the  world  in  which  she  lives,  has 
not  yet  been  touched;  that  the  strong  impressions  of 
childhood  are  the  lasting  ones,  and  that  man  is  but  an 
embodiment  of  the  ideas  of  the  mother. "  But  in  the  case 
of  female  education,  it  is  not  primarily  the  provision  of 
funds  that  causes  difficulties.  The  desire  of  women  to 
share  in  the  advantages  of  education  is  of  itself  looked 
upon  by  the  majority  of  the  Chinese  as  scandalous  and  not 
at  all  to  be  encouraged.  Many  heartrending  tragedies 
have  been  brought  about  by  insoluble  conflicts  of  duty 
toward  the  old  and  the  new.  A  short  time  ago,  in  an 
interior  village  in  Kiang  Su,  a  woman,  ambitious  to  be- 
come educated,  killed  herself  after  bad  treatment  from 
her  husband's  relatives.  Her  farewell  letter  was  every- 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  241 

where  copied  by  the  Chinese  press.  It  has  become  a 
national  document,  and  almost  a  charter  of  the  new  move- 
ment. In  it  occur  the  following  sentences :  "I  am  about 
to  die  today  because  my  husband's  parents,  having 
found  great  fault  with  me  for  having  unbound  my  feet, 
and  declaring  that  I  have  been  diffusing  such  an  evil 
influence  as  to  have  injured  the  reputations  of  my  an- 
cestors, have  determined  to  put  me  to  death.  Maintaining 
that  they  will  be  severely  censured  by  their  relatives,  once 
I  enter  a  school  and  receive  instruction,  they  have  been 
trying  hard  to  deprive  me  of  life,  in  order,  as  they  say, 
to  stop  beforehand  all  the  troubles  that  I  may  cause. 
At  first  they  intended  to  starve  me,  but  now  they  compel 
me  to  commit  suicide  by  taking  poison.  I  do  not  fear 
death  at  all,  but  how  can  I  part  from  my  children  who 
are  so  young?  Indeed,  there  should  be  no  sympathy  for 
me,  but  the  mere  thought  of  the  destruction  of  my  ideals 
and  of  my  young  children,  who  will  without  doubt  be 
compelled  to  live  in  the  old  way,  makes  my  heart  almost 
break. " 

The  blood  of  such  martyrs  is  beginning  to  make  its 
impression  upon  the  Chinese  people,  and  is  turning  them 
to  favor  more  liberal  popular  customs.  A  nation  in  which 
a  spirit  of  such  ruthless  self-sacrifice  is  still  so  common 
may  bring  forth  things  that  will  astonish  the  world.  It 
has  been  said  that  "China  contains  materials  for  a  revolu- 
tion, if  she  should  start  one,  to  which  the  horrors  of  the 
French  revolution  would  be  a  mere  squib ;"  but  if  turned 
into  different  channels,  this  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  may, 
as  it  did  in  the  case  of  Japan,  bring  about  a  quick  regen- 
eration of  national  life  and  national  prestige,  through 
the  establishment  of  new  institutions,  that. correspond  to 
the  currents  of  life  thus  striving  to  assert  themselves. 


242  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

GEORGE  C.  COMSTOCK 

Professor  George  C.  Comstock  was  born  in  Madison  in  1855, 
and  after  an  education  obtained  at  various  colleges  and  uni- 
versities, including  the  institutions  of  Ann  Arbor  and  Madison, 
and  after  considerable  and  varied  experience  in  engineering 
and  astronomical  work,  he  became  professor  of  astronomy  in 
our  own  University  in  1887,  and  Director  of  Washburn  Observa- 
tory two  years  later.  Since  1906  he  has  been  Director  of  the 
Graduate  School.  He  is  the  member  of  many  learned  socie- 
ties, and  has  been  highly  honored  in  numerous  ways  by  insti- 
tutions of  learning.  The  stories  that  are  told,  and  truly  told, 
of  his  mathematical  prowess,  such  as  memorizing  tables  of 
logarithms,  have  excited  wonder  in  the  heart  of  many  a  student 
at  Madison.  His  lectures,  even  on  the  most  abstruse  subjects, 
are  notably  clear.  His  illustrations  are  timely,  and  his  English 
is  of  the  very  purest.  He  is  a  representative  of  the  regular 
classical  education  that  is  now  comparatively  rarely  elected  by 
university  undergraduates. 


ASTROLOGY  IN  LIFE  AND  LITERATURE 
•     •      •      «      » 

The  modern  philosopher  and  historian  alike  deride 
and  marvel  at  astrology  as  the  most  persistent  disease 
with  which  the  minds  of  men  have  ever  been  afflicted 
but  from  which  they  are  now  happily  freed  by  the  ad- 
vance of  science.  I  must  confess  my  inability  to  share 
this  view  as  to  the  patent  folly  of  the  art.  The  careful 
student  of  astrology  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the 
logical  coherence  of  its  doctrines  and  their  necessary  re- 
lation to  the  fundamental  postulates  from  which  they 
spring.  While  these  postulates  can  no  longer  be  main- 
tained they  seem  in  no  way  inappropriate  as  stages  in 
the  development  of  human  knowledge  and  their  wide 
spread  acceptance  is  sufficient  evidence  of  their  seeming 
reasonableness  to  nascent  society.  Indeed  it  is  only  the 
upper  strata  of  European  civilization  that  has  now  out- 
grown the  beliefs  above  considered.  Asia  still  teems  with 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  243 

them,  from  Seoul  to  Bagdad,  and  even  in  the  heart  of 
Europe  astrological  calendars  are  current  and  find  enor- 
mous circulation  among  the  lower  classes.  The  practic- 
ing astrologer  who  seeks  business  through  advertising  in 
the  daily  press  is  with  us  in  America,  and  to  judge  by  the 
persistence  of  his  advertisements  they  bring  response.  I 
find  upon  the  shelves  of  the  principal  scientific  library  of 
Chicago  a  manual  of  applied  astrology  whose  dirty  and 
dog's  eared  leaves,  together  with  recent  date  upon  its  title 
page,  are  additional  testimony  that  American  cultivation 
of  the  occult  is  not  limited  to  Boston.  Even  nearer  home 
we  all  know  people  who  will  plant  or  sow,  or  cut  their 
hair  only  at  the  right  phase  of  the  moon  or  who  have  an 
abiding  faith  that  the  planetary  weather  predictions  of 
Mr.  Hicks  are  sound,  in  theory  at  least.  I  venture  to 
assert  that  within  range  of  the  reader 's  acquaintance 
there  is  a  considerable  number  of  persons  who  firmly 
believe  that  in  case  of  premature  birth  a  seven  months 
baby  has  a  better  chance  of  life  than  one  of  eight  months 
— an  ancient  doctrine,  for  which  excellent  reasons  were 
adduced  by  the  Greek  astrologers  but  which  seems  to 
find  little  support  in  current  medical  theory. 

But  assuredly  our  best  memorial  of  the  part  astrology 
has  played  in  human  affairs  lies  not  in  such  paltry  super- 
stitions but  in  its  incorporation  into  the  great  literatures 
of  Europe.  Casual  illustrations  of  this  fossilized  relation- 
ship have  been  given  in  this  essay,  but  far  more  impressive 
than  these  instances  are  those  cases  in  which  astrologic 
doctrine  permeates  and  dominates  the  whole  structure 
of  a  great  work.  Chaucer's  treatise  on  the  Astrolabe 
was  avowedly  written  as  an  exposition  of  the  astrologic 
art,  and  in  Dante 's  Divine  Comedy  the  whole  moral  struc- 
ture of  the  Paradiso,  with  its  successive  heavens  allotted 


244  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

to  beatitudes  of  varying  degrees,  finds  its  key  in  the  as- 
trology that  Dante  knew  and  followed.  The  sequence  of 
these  heavens  accords  with  that  of  the  spheres  allotted  by 
astrologic  doctrine  to  the  several  planets,  arranged  in  the 
order  of  their  increasing  distance  from  the  earth,  the 
order  of  their  altitude  as  Dante  would  have  said.  The 
lowest  heaven,  that  of  the  moon,  is  allotted  by  tl  ^  poet 
to  virgins  because  forsooth  they  best  typify  those  qualities 
of  cold  and  moist  with  which  astrologic  doctrine  endows 
the  moon.  They  who  have  fought  with  fire  and  sword 
in  defence  of  the  Church  militant  are  placed  in  a  higher 
heaven  than  are  those  saints  and  theologians  whose  serv- 
ice has  been  intellectual  in  its  nature;  an  impropriety  in 
our  eyes  and  doubtless  little  congenial  to  Dante 's  mode  of 
thought.  But  astrologically  it  must  be  so,  for  Mars,  who 
typified  the  warrior,  is  higher,  i.  e.,  more  distant  from  the 
earth,  than  is  the  sun  whose  light  and  warmth  are  alike 
the  symbol  and  the  source  of  intellect  and  spirituality. 
But  ancient  and  modern  ideas  are  equally  satisfied  when 
the  poet  placed  God  and  the  Redeemer  in  the  empyrean, 
the  region  of  the  fixed  stars,  alike  the  most  exalted  and 
by  reason  of  its  distance,  the  purest  part  of  the  universe. 
Alth ought  far  from  extinct,  the  old  faith  in  the  in- 
fluence of  the  heavens  is  waning  and  it  is  hard  to  believe 
that  any  mutations  of  human  thought  can  ever  restore  it 
to  a  status  comparable  with  that  it  enjoyed  in  classical 
and  mediaeval  times.  As  a  factor  in  the  conduct  of  life 
among  enlightened  people  its  power  is  gone,  but  the  marks 
of  its  old  time  influence  are  dyed  in  the  social  fabric, 
imprinted  alike  upon  language  and  literature  and  so  long 
as  that  literature  abides,  astrology  cannot  sink  below  the 
horizon  of  man's  intellectual  interests. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  245 

JAMES  FRANCIS  AUGUSTINE  PYRE 

Professor  Pyre  is  another  teacher  whom  Wisconsin  can 
claim  as  wholly  her  own.  He  was  born  in  1871  in  Rock  County, 
and  graduated  at  our  University  in  1892.  While  teaching 
English  in  his  Alma  Mater,  he  continued  his  graduate  study, 
and  was  given  his  Ph.  D.  in  1897.  He  continued  to  serve  his 
University,  though  for  a  brief  space  of  time  pursuing  his  study 
elsewhere,  and  became  associate  professor  in  1909,  which  po- 
sition he  now  holds. 

No 'former  student  of  the  University  reading  this  volume 
will  be  content  with  this  sketch  of  Mr.  Pyre  without  reference 
to  his  undergraduate  football  days,  and  to  the  nickname 
"Sunny,"  which  will  cling  to  him  as  long  as  he  lives.  Further- 
more, no  one  who  has  sat  in  his  classes  and  been  inspired  by 
his  reading  and  his  interpretation,  and  felt  the  optimism  of 
his  philosophy  will  need  to  have  it  explained  to  him  how  Mr. 
Pyre  acquired  his  nickname. 

The  outstanding  feature  of  his  literary  criticism,  whether 
in  the  form  of  magazine  article,  or  lecture,  or  informal  talk, 
is  clarity.  In  his  class  you  could  always  understand  what  he 
was  getting  at.  The  reader  of  this  brief  selection  from  "Byron 
in  Our  Day,"  will  sense  that  quality  readily.  The  sentences 
are  crisp  and  well  formed.  Their  structure  is  not  involved. 
The  plan  and  organization  are  evident.  At  the  same  time  there 
is  -dignity  and  distinction  in  every  paragraph. 

BYRON  IN  OUR  DAY 

By  J.  F.  A.  Pyre.     From  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Vol.  XCIX,  p.   547. 

And  with  Byron  passion  was  not  merely  a  gift ;  it  was 
a  doctrine.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  Miss  Milbanke,  there 
is  an  observation  which  comes  very  near  to  expressing  the 
central  principle  of  his  existence.  "The  great  object  of 
life  is  sensation— to  feel  that  we  exist — even  though  in 
pain."  To  him,  one  of  the  chief  curses  of  society  was  its 
ennui,  the  futility  of  its  conventional  pursuits,  which  all 
recognize,  but  most  endure.  He  was  for  fanning  the 
coal  of  life  into  a  blaze.  The  vitality  of  his  emotions 
demanded  this.  Hence,  when  friendship  stagnated,  when 
love  lapsed  into  the  inevitable  mediocrity  and  torpor,  he 
fretted  or  fled.  In  ordinary  terms,  he  was  fundamentally 
and  abnormally  impatient  of  being  bored. 


246  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

A  being  thus  constituted,  and  cherishing  so  dangerous 
a  doctrine,  naturally  found  no  peace  in  this  life,  but  was 
goaded  on  from  pleasure  to  pleasure,  or  from  one  violence 
to  another.  Passionate  friendships,  savage  quarrels,  gam- 
ing, carousing,  travel  and  adventure,  hard  reading,  hard 
riding,  flirtations,  and  intrigues  of  varying  intensity  and 
duration,  playing  the  social  and  literary  lion,  parliament, 
marriage,  occupied  but  did  not  satisfy  him.  Avid  of 
sensation,  avid  of  power,  he  threw  himself  impetuously 
into  his  pursuits,  lavished  his  life  with  the  reckless  waste 
of  a  cataract,  and  seemed  as  inexhaustible.  He  was  too 
clear-sighted  not  to  perceive  the  triviality  of  many  of  his 
occupations,  and  though  too  willful  to  change  his  ways,  or 
employ  his  ample  will  power  in  self-restraint,  he  was  not 
sordid  enough  to  be  happy  so.  Hence,  he  became  a  mal- 
content. .  Love  soothed  him,  nature  appeased  him  for  a 
time ;  and  in  the  presence  of  either,  he  soared  into  realms 
of  serene  delight  and  contemplation.  But  "he  could  not 
keep  his  spirit  at  that  height;"  say,  perhaps,  he  was  not 
a  dreamer ;  his  passion  called  for  outlet  in  action,  in  enter- 
prise ;  and  he  became — a  writer ! 

EDWARD  AL8WORTH  ROSS 

Edward  Alsworth  Ross  is  nationally  one  of  the  best-known 
men  here  represented.  He  was  born  at  Virden,  Illinois,  in 
1866;  was  graduated  from  Coe  College,  Iowa,  in  1886;  and 
then  continued  his  education  in  Berlin  and  Johns  Hopkins. 
He  has  been  professor  of  economy,  sociology,  and  kindred  sub- 
jects at  many  universities,  including  Indiana  University, 
Cornell,  Leland  Stanford,  Junior,  the  University  of  Nebraska, 
and,  since  1906,  the  University  of  Wisconsin.  He  is  the  author 
of  many  books  and  magazine  articles,  among  the  most  note- 
worthy of  the  former,  perhaps,  being  "Sin  and  Society,"  So- 
cial Psychology,"  "Latter  Day  Sinners  and  Saints,"  and  "The 
Changing  Chinese." 

The  selection  here  chosen  Is  from  the  last  named  book.  The 
style  is  like  the  man,  forceful,  trenchant,  and  abounding  in 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  247 

life.  Mr.  Ross's  tall,  rugged,  muscular  figure  and  forceful  ges- 
tures are  familiar  to  the  lovers  of  lectures  in  Wisconsin,  and 
all  who  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  hear  him,  whether  in 
regular  classes  at  the  University,  or  in  extension  or  other 
lecture  work,  will  recall  his  striking  appearance  as  they  read 
the  clear,  clean-cut  statements  in  this  selection. 


THE  CONFLICT  OP  ORIENTAL  AND  WESTERN  CULTURES 

IN  CHINA 

From   "THE  CHANGING  CHINESE."     Chapter  I.     Copyright,   1911. 
by   the  Century  Co. 

China  is  the  European  Middle  Ages  made  visible.  All 
the  cities  afe  walled  and  the  walls  and  gates  have  been 
kept  in  repair  with  an  eye  to  their  effectiveness.  The 
mandarin  has  his  headquarters  only  in  a  walled  fortress- 
city  and  to  its  shelter  he  retires  when  a  sudden  tempest  of 
rebellion  vexes  the  peace  of  his  district. 

The  streets  of  the  cities  are  narrow,  crooked,  poorly- 
paved,  filthy,  and  malodorous.  In  North  China  they  ad- 
mit the  circulation  of  the  heavy  springless  carts  by  which 
alone  passengers  are  carried ;  but,  wherever  rice  is  culti- 
vated, the  mule  is  eliminated  and  the  streets  are  adapted 
only  to  the  circulation  of  wheel-barrows  and  pedestrians. 
There  is  little  or  no  assertion  of  the  public  interest  in 
the  highway,  and  hence  private  interests  close  in  upon 
the  street  and  well-nigh  block  it.  The  shopkeeper  builds 
his  counter  in  front  of  his  lot  line ;  the  stalls  line  the  streets 
with  their  crates  and  baskets;  the  artisans  overflow  into 
it  with  their  workbenches,  and  the  final  result  is  that  the 
traffic  filters  painfully  through  a  six-foot  passage  which 
would  yet  be  more  encroached  on  but  for  the  fact  that 
the  officials  insist  on  their  being  room  left  for  their  sedan 
chairs  to  pass  each  other. 

The  straightened  streets  are  always  crowded  and  give 


248  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

the  traveler  the  impression  of  a  high  density  and  an  enor- 
mous population.  But  the  buildings  are  chiefly  one  story 
in  height,  and,  with  the  exception  of  Peking,  Chinese 
cities  cover  no  very  great  area.  For  literary  effect  their 
population  has  been  recklessly  exaggerated,  and,  in  the 
absence  of  reliable  statistics,  every  traveler  has  felt  at 
liberty  to  adopt  the  highest  guess. 

Until  recently  there  was  no  force  in  the  cities  to  main- 
tain public  order.  Now,  khaki-clad  policemen,  club  in 
hand,  patrol  the  streets,  but  their  efficiency  in  time  of 
tumult  is  by  no  means  vindicated.  A  slouching,  bare-foot, 
mild-faced  gendarme  such  as  you  see  in  Canton  is  by  no 
means  an  awe-inspiring  embodiment  of  the  majesty  of  the 
law. 

There  is  no  common  supply  of  water.  When  a  city  lies 
by  a  river  the  raw  river  water  is  borne  about  to  the  house 
by  regular  water-carriers,  and  the  livelong  day  the  river- 
stairs  are  wet  from  the  drip  of  buckets.  When  the  water 
is  too  thick  it  is  partially  clarified  by  stirring  it  with  a 
perforated  joint  of  bamboo  containing  some  piece  of 
alum. 

There  is  no  public  lighting,  and  after  nightfall  the 
streets  are  dark,  forbidding,  and  little  frequented.  Until 
kerosene  began  to  penetrate  the  Empire  the  common 
source  of  light  was  a  candle  in  a  paper  lantern  or  cotton 
wick  lighted  in  an  open  cup  of  peanut  oil.  Owing  to  the 
lack  of  a  good  illuminant  the  bulk  of  the  people  retire 
with  the  fowls  and  rise  with  the  sun.  By  making  the  eve- 
ning of  some  account  for  reading  or  for  family  inter- 
course, kerosene  has  been  a  great  boon  to  domestic  life. 

Fuel  is  scarce  and  is  sold  in  neat  bundles  of  kindling 
size.  Down  the  West  River  ply  innumerable  boats  corded 
high  with  firewood  floating  down  to  Canton  and  Hong 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  249 

Kong.  Higher  and  higher  the  tree  destruction  extends,  and 
farther  and  farther  does  the  axman  work  his  way  from  the 
waterways.  Chaff  and  straw,  twigs  and  leaves  and  litter 
are  burned  in  the  big  brick  bedsteads  that  warm  the 
sleepers  on  winter  nights,  and  under  the  big,  shallow  cop- 
per vessels  set  in  the  low  brick  or  mud  stoves.  Fuel  is 
economized  and  household  economy  simplified  among  the 
poor  by  the  custom  of  relying  largely  on  the  food  cooked 
and  vended  in  the  street.  The  portable  restaurant  is  in 
high  favor,  for  our  prejudice  against  food  cooked  outside 
the  home  is  a  luxury  the  common  people  cannot  afford  to 
indulge  in. 

Proper  chimneys  are  wanting  and  wherever  cooking 
goes,  on  the  walls  are  black  with  the  smoke  that  is  left  to 
escape  as  it  will.  Chinese  interiors  are  apt  to  be  dark  for, 
in  the  absence  of  window  glass,  the  only  means  of  letting 
in  light  without  weather  is  by  pasting  paper  on  lattice. 
The  floors  are  dirt,  brick,  or  tile,  the  roof  tile  or  thatch. 
To  the  passer-by  private  ease  and  luxury  are  little  in 
evidence.  If  a  man  has  house  and  grounds  of  beauty,  a 
high  wall  hides  them  from  the  gaze  of  the  public.  Open 
lawns  and  gardens  are  never  seen,  and  there  is  no 
greenery  accessible  to  the  public  unless  it  be  the  grovp  of 
an  occasional  temple. 

In  the  houses  of  the  wealthy,  although  there  is  much 
beauty  to  be  seen,  the  standard  of  neatness  is  not  ours. 
Cobwebs,  dust,  or  incipient  dilapidation  do  not  excite  the 
servant  or  mortify  the  proprietor.  While  a  mansion  may 
contain  priceless  porcelains  and  display  embroideries  and 
furniture  that  would  be  pronounced  beautiful  the  world 
over,  in  general,  the  interiors  wrought  by  the  Chinese 
artisan  do  not  compare  in  finish  with  those  of  his  Western 
confrere.  •  •  » 


250  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

No  memory  of  China  is  more  haunting  than  that  of 
the  everlasting  blue  cotton  garments.  The  common  people 
wear  coarse,  deep-blue  " nankeen.*'  The  gala  dress  is  a 
cotton  gown  of  a  delicate  bird's-egg  blue  or  a  silk  jacket 
of  rich  hue.  In  cold  weather  the  poor  wear  quilted  cotton, 
while  the  well-to-do  keep  themselves  warm  with  fur-lined 
garments  of  silk.  A  general  adoption  of  Western  dress 
would  bring  on  an  economic  crisis,  for  the  Chinese  are 
not  ready  to  rear  sheep  on  a  great  scale  and  it  will  be 
long  before  they  can  supply  themselves  with  wool.  The 
Chinese  jacket  is  fortunate  in  opening  at  the  side  instead 
of  at  the  front.  When  the  winter  winds  of  Peking  gnaw 
at  you  with  Siberian  teeth,  you  realize  how  stupid  is  our 
Western  way  of  cutting  a  notch  in  front  right  down 
through  overcoat,  coat  and  vest,  apparently  in  order  that 
the  cold  may  do  its  worst  to  the  tender  throat  and  chest. 
On  seeing  the  sensible  Chinaman  bring  his  coat  squarely 
across  his  front  and  fasten  it  on  his  shoulder,  you  feel 
like  an  exposed  totem-worshipper. 

Wherever  stone  is  to  be  had,  along  or  spanning  the 
main  roads  are  to  be  seen  the  memorial  arches  known  as 
pailows  erected  by  imperial  permission  to  commemorate 
some  deed  or  life  of  extraordinary  merit.  It  is  significant 
that  when  they  proclaim  achievement,  it  is  that  of  the 
scholar,  not  of  the  warrior.  They  enclose  a  central  gate- 
way, flanked  by  two,  and  sometimes  by  four,  smaller  gate- 
ways, and  conform  closely  to  a  few  standard  types,  all  of 
real  beauty.  As  a  well-built  pailow  lasts  for  centuries, 
and  as  the  erection  of  such  a  memorial  is  one  of  the  first 
forms  of  outlay  that  occur  to  a  philanthropic  Chinaman, 
they  accumulate,  and  sometimes  the  road  near  cities  is 
lined  with  those  structures  until  one  wearies  of  so  much 
repetition  of  the  same  thing,  however  beautiful. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  251 

GRANT  SHOWERMAN 

Professor  Showerman  is  another  author-teacher  whom  Wis- 
consin may  claim  as  her  own.  He  was  born  at  Brookfield  in 
1870,  was  graduated  from  the  University  in  1896,  and  took  his 
doctorate  in  1900.  He  had  the  advantage  of  two  years'  study 
at  Rome,  where  he  was  Fellow  of  the  Archaeological  Insti- 
tute of  America  in  the  American  School  of  Classical  Studies. 
Since  returning,  he  has  been  Professor  of  Latin  Literature  at 
his  Alma  Mater.  He  is  member  of  many  learned  societies, 
and  is  the  author  of  "With  the  Professor"  and  "The  Indian 
Stream  Republic  and  Luther  Parker,"  besides  many  articles 
which  are  familiar  to  readers  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  and 
other  leading  periodicals. 

His  style  will  be  noted  at  once  by  the  careful  reader  as 
being  different  from  that  of  most  other  prose  writers  whose 
works  we  quote  here.  It  is  more  leisurely.  He  brings  to  the 
common  things  about  Us  in  Nature  the  kindly,  alert  intelligence 
of  one  who  has  seen  many  things  in  many  lands,  but  who  has 
the  memory  to  re-create  truthfully  the  days  of  youth. 


A  LAD'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OP  HIS  BOYHOOD  HAUNTS  AND 
EXPERIENCES  IN  THE  EARLIER  DAYS 

"IN  OCTOBER."     From   the  Sewanee  Review. 


On  a  late  October  Saturday  morning,  after  a  \\<-ck  in 
school  at  the  village,  you  take  your  gun  and  a  favorite 
play,  whistle  to  already  eager  Billy,  and  follow  the  path 
to  the  Brush.  You  traverse  its  quiet  length  by  the  wind- 
ing road  that  is  always  mysterious  and  full  of  charm, 
however  often  you  tread  it,  you  cross  the  stubbled  barley- 
field  that  borders  Lovers'  Lane,  and  cross  the  lane  itself 
and  enter  the  Woods.  You  feel  the  friendly  book  in  your 
pocket,  and  pat  the  friendly  dog  at  your  side,  restfully 
conscious  that  you  will  spend  neither  profitless  nor  com- 
panionless  hours.  To  be  sure,  you  have  in  the  back  of 
your  mind  a  thought  or  two  about  fox  squirrels,  or  even 
red  squirrels,  and  of  a  stew-pie — the  savor  of  it  is  in  your 
sensitive  nostrils;  but  these  thoughts  are  only  vague. 


252  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Your  eyes  are  not  greedily  watchful — only  moderately  so ; 
you  have  already  begun  to  outgrow  the  barbarous  boy- 
hood delight  of  mere  killing.  Good  will  reigns  in  your 
breast 

You  advance  cautiously,  the  breech-loader  resting  in 
the  bend  of  your  left  arm,  every  step  causing  pleasant 
murmurs  among  the  autumn  leaves.  When  you  pause,  the 
sound  of  your  heart-beats  is  audible.  The  genial  golden 
tone  of  Indian  Summer  pervades  the  air. 

When  you  have  penetrated  to  the  heart  of  the  Woods, 
you  sit  down  on  a  familiar  log,  the  gun  caressingly 
across  your  knees,  and  drink  in  the  fine  wine  of  woodland 
enjoyment!  Ah,  the  silence  of  the  Woods!  How  deep 
and  how  full  of  mystery!  And  how  deeper  whenever 
some  note  of  life  emphasizes  the  stillness — the  knocking 
of  a  woodpecker,  the  cry  of  a  sapsucker,  the  scream  of  a 
jay,  the  caw  of  a  crow  aloft  on  some  decayed  topmost 
branch  in  the  distance! 

A  distant  barking  note  makes  you  start.  There  is  a 
fox  squirrel  over  yonder  somewhere,  beyond  the  ruins  of 
the  old  arch.  You  strain  your  attention  toward  the  sound. 
Billy  sits  bolt  upright,  with  round  eyes,  questioning  ears, 
and  suspended  breath. 

But  just  as  you  are  thinking  of  getting  up,  a  nut  drops 
with  a  thump  on  the  log  beside  you  and  bounds  lightly 
into  the  leaves  at  your  feet.  You  know  what  that  means ! 
You  look  up  instantly  and  catch  just  a  glimpse  -of  a 
sweeping  foxy  tail  as  it  vanishes  along  a  big  branch  and 
around  the  thick  stem  of  a  tree.  He  goes  up  forty  or  fifty 
feet,  and  then,  far  out  on  the  big  oak  branch,  lies  close  to 
the  bark,  out  of  sight. 

Billy  whines  uneasily;  he  shivers  with  excitement. 
You  say:  "Sit  still,  Billy!" 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  253 

There  is  only  the  least  bit  of  the  foxy  tail  visible.  You 
tread  softly  to  one  side  and  another,  slowly  circle  the  tree, 
and  all  the  while  the  owner  of  the  tail  subtly  shifts  his 
position  so  that  you  always  just  fail  to  get  a  shot. 

Finally,  you  resort  to  stratagem;  you  pick  up  a  nut 
and  throw  it  with  all  your  might  to  the  other  side  of  the 
tree.  He  hears  it  fall,  and,  suddenly  suspicious,  shifts 
to  your  side  of  the  branch.  But  you  are  not  quick  enough ; 
by  the  time  you  have  raised  the  gun,  he  has  become  satis- 
fied that  you  are  the  greater  danger  of  the  two,  and  has 
shifted  back  to  safety. 

And  now  you  resort  to  more  elaborate  stratagem.  You 
say:  "Sit  down,  Billy!"  and  Billy  obeys,  keeping  his 
eye  on  you,  and  dropping  his  ears  from  time  to  time,  as  he 
catches  your  glance,  in  token  of  good-will.  You  circle  the 
big  tree  again,  and  as  you  go  the  tail  shifts  constantly. 

Finally,  when  you  are  opposite  Billy,  you  raise  the  gun 
with  careful  calculation.  You  call  out  quietly  but  sharply 
to  your  ally :  ' '  Speak,  Billy,  quick ! ' ' 

Billy  is  tense  with  excitement  at  sight  of  the  raised 
gun.  He  speaks  out  sharply,  at  the  same  time  giving  a 
couple  of  little  leaps.  The  squirrel  shifts  again  to  your 
side,  suddenly. 

And  now  comes  your  opportunity !  As  he  sits  there  a 
moment,  his  attention  divided  between  you  and  the  new 
alarm,  the  breech-loader  belches  its  charge.  A  brownish - 
red  body  with  waving  tail  comes  headlong  to  the  ground 
with  a  crash  among  the  leaves,  which  rustle  and  crackle 
for  a  moment  or  two  at  your  feet  as  you  watch  the  blind 
kicks  of  the  death  struggle.  You  pick  him  up,  with  no 
very  great  eagerness,  and  go  on  your  way — regretfully, 
for  you  are  enjoying  the  life  of  the  Woods,  and  arc  enough 
of  a  philosopher  and  sentimentalist  to  wonder  what,  after 


254  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

all,  is  your  superior  right  to  the  enjoyment,  and  whether 
the  contribution  to  the  sum  total  of  happiness  in  the  uni- 
verse through  you  is  enough  to  compensate  it  for  the  loss 
through  the  squirrel. 

You  ask  Billy  about  it  and  get  no  help.  He  simply 
says  that  whatever  you  think  best  is  bound  to  be  all 
right,  and  leads  the  way  toward  the  old  arch. 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  LEONARD 

William  Ellery  Leonard  was  born  in  New  Jersey  in  1876. 
He  has  been  a  professor  of  English  in  the  University  of  Wis- 
consin only  since  1909,  so  he  is  not,  as  yet,  so  closely  con- 
nected with  the  state  in  the  thought  of  the  alumni  of  the  Uni- 
versity as  are  most  of  the  men  whose  works  have  just  been 
discussed  and  illustrated.  But  if  what  he  has  produced  may 
fairly  be  taken  as  an  earnest  of  his  future  work,  his  name  will 
be  one  which  all  lovers  of  our  University  will  be  proud  to 
associate  with  that  institution.  One  needs  read  scarcely  more 
than  a  paragraph  at  almost  any  point  in  his  published  works 
to  realize  that  Mr.  Leonard  Is  a  man  of  keen  and  kindly  in- 
terest in  all  things  that  he  hears  and  sees,  and  that  he  has 
traveled  and  studied  and  lived  widely  and  wisely.  He  has  pub- 
lished several  volumes,  both  of  poems  and  prose, — notable 
among  them  being  "Sonnets  and  Poems,"  "The  Poet  of  Gali- 
lee," "Aesop  and  Hyssop,"  "The  Vaunt  of  Man  and  Other 
Poems,"  and  "Glory  of  the  Morning."  The  selections  given 
are  taken  from  the  last  two  volumes  mentioned. 

One  acquainted  with  modern  English  poetry  may  sense  a 
marked  likeness  between  Mr.  Leonard's  poems  and  those  of 
Swinburne,  though  the  former  says  he  is  not  conscious  of  any 
such  resemblance.  There  is  a  warmth  of  passion,  a  fluid  quality 
in  the  rhythm,  markedly  like  those  elements  In  the  great  Eng- 
lish poet.  The  selection  from  "Glory  of  the  Morning"  here 
given  begins  at  that  point  in  the  play  where  Half  Moon,  tne 
Chevalier,  the  white  trapper,  comes  back  to  his  Indian  wife  to 
bid  her  farewell  and  to  take  their  two  children  with  him  to  his 
home  in  France.  The  reader  will  feel,  even  in  this  brief  ex- 
tract, the  sweep  toward  a  climax  of  emotion,  and  will  be  Im- 
pelled to  read  the  whole  play  at  his  first  opportunity. 

(One  of  the  most  interesting  features  of  the  editorial  work 
of  this  volume  has  been  the  adjustment  of  the  choice  of  selec- 
tions respectively  of  the  editors  and  authors.  The  editors' 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  255 

choice  of  the  poems  from  Mr.  Leonard's  volume,  "The  Vaunt 
of  Man,"  was  "Love  Afar";  the  author,  on  the  other  hand,  tells 
us  that  he  thought  so  little  of  this  poem  that  he  even  consid- 
ered omitting  it  from  the  volume.  His  preference  is  "A  Dedi- 
cation." What  does  the  reader  say?) 


GLORY  OF  THE  MORNING 

Copyright,  1912,  by  the  author. 

The  Chevalier :  I  will  take  care  of  the  children.  -They 
are  both  young.  They  can  learn. 

Glory  of  the  Morning :     They  can  learn  ? 

The  Chevalier:  Oak  Leaf  is  already  more  than  half 
a  white  girl ;  and  Red  Wing  is  half  white  in  blood,  if  not 
in  manners — ca  ira. 

Glory  of  the  Morning  (Beginning  to  realize) :  No,  no. 
They  are  mine ! 

The  Chevalier  (Reaching  out  his  arms  to  take  them) : 
No. 

Glory  of  the  Morning:  They  are  mine!  They  are 
mine! 

The  Chevalier :  The  Great  King  will  give  them  pres- 
ents. 

Glory  of  the  Morning :     No,  no ! 

The  Chevalier :     He  will  lay  his  hands  on  their  heads. 

Glory  of  the  Morning :    He  shall  not,  he  shall  not ! 

The  Chevalier:  I  have  said  that  I  will  tell  him  you 
were  their  mother. 

Glory  of  the  Morning :  I  am  their  mother — I  am  their 
mother. 

The  Chevalier:  And  he  will  praise  Glory  of  the 
Morning. 

Glory  of  the  Morning :     They  are  mine,  they  are  mine ! 

The  Chevalier:  I  have  come  to  take  them  back  with 
me  over  the  Big  Sea  Water. 


256  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Glory  of  the  Morning  (The  buckskin  shirt  falls  from 
her  hands  as  she  spreads  her  arms  and  steps  between  him 
and  her  children):  No,  no,  no!  They  are  not  yours! 
They  are  mine!  The  long  pains  were  mine!  Their  food 
at  the  breast  was  mine !  Year  after  year  while  you  were 
away  so  long,  long,  long,  I  clothed  them,  I  watched  them, 
I  taught  them  to  speak  the  tongue  of  my  people.  All  that 
they  are  is  mine,  mine,  mine ! 

The  Chevalier  (Drawing  Oak  Leaf  to  him  and  holding 
up  her  bare  arm) :  Is  that  an  Indian's  skin?  Where  did 
that  color  come  from?  I'm  giving  you  the  white  man's 
law. 

Glory  of  the  Morning  (Struggling  with  the  Chevalier) : 
I  do  not  know  the  white  man's  law.  And*!  do  not  know 
how  their  skin  borrowed  the  white  man's  color.  But  I 
know  that  their  little  bodies  came  out  of  my  own  body — 
my  own  body.  They  must  be  mine,  they  shall  be  mine,  they 
are  mine!  (The  Chevalier  throws  her  aside  so  that  she 
falls.) 

The  Chevalier :  Glory  of  the  Morning,  the  Great  Spirit 
said  long  before  you  were  born  that  a  man  has  a  right  to 
his  own  children.  The  Great  Spirit  made  woman  so  that 
she  should  bring  him  children.  Black  Wolf,  is  it  not  so? 

Black  Wolf:     It  is  so. 

The  Chevalier  (To  Glory  of  the  Morning,  standing 
apart) :  Black  Wolf  is  the  wise  man  of  your  people. 

Black  Wolf :  And  knows  the  Great  Spirit  better  than 
the  white  men. 

The  Chevalier:    Indeed,  I  think  so. 

Black  Wolf:  And  the  Great  Spirit  made  the  man  so 
that  he  should  stay  with  the  squaw  who  brought  him  the 
children, — except  when  off  hunting  meat  for  the  wigwam 
or  on  the  warpath  for  the  tribe. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  257 

"Glory  of  the  Morning  (With  some  spirit  and  dignity)  : 
The  white  man  Half  Moon  has  said  that  he  believes  Black 
Wolf. 

The  Chevalier :  The  white  man  has  not  come  to  argue 
with  the  Red  Skin,  but  to  take  the  white  man's  children. 

Black  Wolf  (In  his  role  of  practical  wisdom)  :  The 
Half  Moon  will  listen  to  Black  Wolf. 

The  Chevalier  (With  conciliation) :  If  the  Black  Wolf 
speaks  wisely. 

Black  Wolf :  Neither  Oak  Leaf  nor  Red  Wing  is  a  mere 
papoose  to  be  snatched  from  the  mother's  back. 

The  Chevalier:  The  Half  Moon  shares  Black  Wolf's 
pride  in  the  Half  Moon's  children. 

Black  Wolf  (Pointing  to  the  discarded  cradle-board) : 
The  mother  long  since  loosened  the  thongs  that  bound 
them  to  the  cradle-board,  propped  against  the  wigwam. 

The  Chevalier :  And  when  she  unbound  the  thongs  of 
the  cradle-board  they  learned  to  run  toward  their  father. 

Black  Wolf :  But  invisible  thongs  may  now  bind  them 
round,  which  even  the  Half  Moon  might  not  break,  with- 
out rending  the  flesh  from  their  bones  and  preparing 
sorrows  and  cares  for  his  head. 

The  Chevalier :    Let  us  have  done,  Black  Wolf. 

Black  Wolf:  Thongs  which  none  could  break,  unless 
Oak  Leaf  and  Red  Wing  themselves  should  first  unbind 
them.  (To  the  children.)  Will  Oak  Leaf,  will  Red  Wing 
unbind  the  mystic  thongs  of  clan  and  home?  Let  the 
children  decide. 

The  Chevalier:  Black  Wolf  is  wise.  My  children  are 
babes  no  longer.  Thev^  can  think  and  speak. 

Black  Wolf :    Let  them  speak. 

***** 

Glory  of  the  Morning:     Yes.    Let  the  children  decide. 


258  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Black  Wolf:  Oak  Leaf,  do  you  want  to  leave  Black 
Wolf  and  Glory  of  the  Morning  to  go  with  Half  Moon  over 
the  Big  Sea  Water? 

Oak  Leaf  (Looking  up  at  her  mother) :  0  do  I, 
mother  1 

Glory  of  the  Morning :  1  -cannot  tell.  I  love  you,  Oak 
Leaf. 

Oak  Leaf  (Withdrawing  toward  her  father) :  Mother, 
make  father  Half  Moon  take  you  with  us  too. 

Glory  of  the  Morning:  The  Half  Moon  has  told  you 
that  he  no  longer  needs  Glory  of  the  Morning. 

The  Chevalier  (Taking  Oak  Leaf's  hand  caressingly) : 
Oak  Leaf,  you  are  too  beautiful  to  wither  and  wrinkle 
here  digging  and  grinding  and  stitching,  though  the  hand- 
somest brave  of  the  Winnebago  bought  you  for  his  squaw. 
Beyond  the  Big  Sea  Water  you  won't  have  to  dig  and 
grind  and  stitch.  And  sometime  a  noble  brave  of  my 
nation  will  come  in  a  blue  suit  with  gold  braid  to  the 
chateau  and  say:  "I  love  Oak  Leaf;  will  you  give  Oak 
Leaf  to  me?" 

Oak  Leaf  (Gladly) :  And  you'll  give  me  to  him, 
father!  •  »  «  (Oak  Leaf  leans  against  her  father, 
with  a  half  frightened  glance  at  Glory  of  the  Morning.) 

The  Chevalier :    You  see,  Glory  of  the  Morning. 

Glory  of  the  Morning  (With  restraint)  :  I  will  say 
good-bye  to  Oak  Leaf.. 

Black  Wolf:  Red  Wing,  are  you  going  with  your 
sister  and  with  Half  Moon  over  the  Big  Sea  Water? 

Red  Wing:  Sister,  are  you  really  going? — You  are 
always  making  believe. 

Oak  Leaf :    0,  father,— tell  him. 

The  Chevalier :    She  is  going,  Red  Wing. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  259 

Eed  Wing :  There  is  nothing  for  me  beyond  the  Big 
Sea  Water. 

The  Chevalier :  Over  there  your  father  is  a  famous 
chief,  and  you  might  wear  a  sword  and  fight  beside  the 
Great  King. 

Red  Wing:  I  shall  not  fight  beside  the  Great  King; 
and  I  shall  not  wear  the  white  man's  sword. 

The  Chevalier  (Takes  his  arm,  coaxingly)  :  Little 
chief,  why  not?  Why  not,  my  son? 

Glory  of  the  Morning  (Coldly  and  firmly)  :  Because 
he  is  my  son. 

Red  Wing  (Standing  off;  to  the  Chevalier  with  boyish 
pride) :  Because  I  am  a  Winn^bago. 

LOVE  AFAR 

From    "THE  VAUNT  OP  MAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS,"   p.   75. 
Copyright,  1912,  by  B.  W.  Huebsch. 

I  dare  not  look,  O  Love,  on  thy  dear  grace, 

On  thine  immortal  eyes,  nor  hear  thy  song, 

For  O  too  sore  I  need  thee  and  too  long, 

Too  weak  as  yet  to  meet  thee  face  to  face. 

Thy  light  would  blind — for  dark  my  dwelling  place — 

Thy  voice  would  wake  old  thoughts  of  right  and  wrong, 

And  hopes  which  sleep,  once  beautiful  and  strong, 

That  would  unman  me  with  a  dread  disgrace: 

Therefore,  O  Love,  be  as  the  evening  star, 
With  amber  light  of  land  and  sea  between, 
A  high  and  gentle  influence  from  afar, 
Persuading  from  the  common  and  the  mean, 
Still  as  the  moon  when  full  tides  cross  the  bar 
In  the  wide  splendor  of  a  night  serene. 

THE  IMAGE  OF  DELIGHT 

O  how  came  I  that  loved  stars,  moon,  and  flame, 

An  unimaginable  wind  and  sea, 

All  inner  shrines  and  temples  of  the  free, 


260  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Legends  and  hopes  and  golden  books  of  fame; 
I  that  upon  the  mountain  carved  my  name 
With  cliffs  and  clouds  and  eagles  over  me, 

0  how  came  I  to  stoop  to  loving  thee — 

1  that  had  never  stooped  before  to  shame? 

0  'twas  not  Thee!     Too  eager  of  a  white, 
Far  beauty  and  a  voice  to  answer  mine, 
Myself  I  built  an  image  of  delight, 

Which  all  one  purple  day  I  deemed  divine — 
And  when  it  vanished  in  the  fiery  night, 

1  lost  not  thee,  nor  any  shape  of  thine. 


A  DEDICATION 

(For  a  privately  printed  collection  of  verse.) 
Te  gave  me  life  for  life  to  crave: 
Desires  for  mighty  suns,  or  high,  or  low, 
For  moons  mysterious  over  cliffs  of  snow, 
For  the  wild  foam  upon  the  midsea  wave; 
Swift  joy  in  freeman,  swift  contempt  for  slave; 
Thought  which  would  bind  and  name  the  stars  and  know; 
Passion  that  chastened  in  mine  overthrow; 
And  speech,  to  justify  my  life,  ye  gave. 

Life  of  my  life,  this  late  return  of  song 
I  give  to  you  before  the  close  of  day; 
Life  of  your  life!  which  everlasting  wrong 
Shall  have  no  power  to  baffle  or  betray, 
O  father,  mother! — for  ye  watched  so  long, 
Te  loved  so  long,  and  I  was  far  away. 


THOMAS  HERBERT  DICKINSON 

Thomas  Herbert  Dickinson  was  born  in  Virginia  in  1877, 
and  after  a  wide  and  thorough  scholastic  preparation  was  made 
associate  professor  of  English  in  the  University  of  Wisconsin 
in  1909.  Mr.  Dickinson  is  known  to  thousands  of  the  citizens 
of  Wisconsin  as  a  friend  of  the  drama.  He  believes  that  the 
drama  is  one  of  the  most  legitimate  and  natural  means  for 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  261 

the  expression  of  the  sentiments,  tendencies,  activities,  and 
ideals  of  any  people.  No  doubt  he  has  done  much  to  raise  the 
standard  of  dramatic  judgment  and  criticism  among  the  citi- 
zens of  Wisconsin.  However,  he  would  not  want  it  said  that  he 
is  trying  primarily  "to  raise  people's  dramatic  ideals."  His 
mission  rather  has  been  to  encourage  communities  to  express 
themselves  legitimately  and  wholesomely  through  their  own 
dramatic  productions.  He  has  won  much  distinction  both  as  an 
editor  and  an  author  of  plays,  but  perhaps  his  greatest  service 
to  Wisconsin  in  this  direction  is  his  work  in  editing  the  little 
volume,  "Wisconsin  Plays,"  containing  one  play  each  by  Zona 
Gale,  Professor  Leonard,  and  himself. 

The  following  selection  is  taken  from  his  play,  "In  Hos- 
pital," in  the  volume  just  mentioned.  It  depicts  just  such  a 
scene  as  takes  place  in  our  hospitals  every  day  of  the  year. 
The  wife  is  about  to  undergo  a  serious  operation.  The  hus- 
band is  trying  to  keep  cheerful  in  anticipation  of  the  ordeal. 
That  is  the  sort  of  scene  which,  Mr.  Dickinson  wants  us  to 
realize,  can  be  wholesomely  and  pleasantly  represented  by  the 
drama. 


IN  HOSPITAIi 

Copyright.   1909,  by  the  author. 

A  Wife. 

A  Husband. 

A  Surgeon. 

An  Interne. 

A  Nurse. 

Wife :     Tell  me  about  the  children. 

Husband :     Oh,  they  are  getting  on — so,  so. 

Wife :     I  know  they  will. 

Husband:  But  you  should  see  them!  (Turning 
toward  her.  She  nods  without  speaking.)  They're  try- 
ing hard  to  be  good,  but  it's  a  stiff  pull  for  the  little 
rascals.  Well,  I  don't  blame  them.  Freddie  put  me  in 
quite  a  hole  the  other  <lny.  "What's  the  use  of  being  good 
when  iimt her 's  away?"  he  asked.  (She  smiles.)  For  the 
life  of  me  I  couldn't  think  of  an  answer.  What  would 
you  say  ? 

Wife:     I'd  be  as  bad  off  as  you  were. 

Husband:     But  Robert  wasn't.     He  had  an  answer. 


262  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

"So  mother  will  be  happy  when  she  comes  back,"  he 
said.    Wasn't  that  good? 

Wife :    Just  like  Robert. 

Husband:  I  don't  know  what  we  should  have  done 
without  Robert.  He  serves  at  the  table.  He  answers  the 
door  and  the  telephone.  He  ties  the  baby's  bib.  How 
he  thinks* of  everything  I  don't  know.  I — I'm  so  help- 
less. Why  didn't  you  ever  teach  me  to  take  charge  of  the 
house  T 

Wife:  Fancy  teaching  you  anything  you  didn't  want 
to  learn. 

Husband  (After  a  moment's  deep  silence) :  All  the 
kiddies  send  you  their  love. 

Wife:     Even  Freddie? 

Husband :  Oh,  Freddie,  to  be  sure.  Guess  you  know 
about  what  he's  doing.  Upstairs  and  downstairs.  Out- 
doors and  in. 

Wife:     I  hope  he  won't  get  hurt. 

Husband :  Trust  him  for  that.  But  how  do  you  keep  ? 
him  in  aprons?  They're  all  dirty  already.  Yesterday 
he 'got  all  scratched  up  trying  to  put  Kitty  to  bed  and 
make  him  say  his  prayers.  He  has  fallen  in  the  flour  bin, 
put  the  telephone  out  of  commission,  pulled  the  table-cloth 
and  dishes  off  the  table.  There  isn't  anything  he  hasn't 
done.  Freddie  will  welcome  you  back  with  a  dish-pan 
band,  when  you  come  home. 

Wife  (Closing  her  eyes) :    Yes— 

Husband  (Pretending  not  to  notice,  though  it  is  clear 
that  he  does) :  Did  I  tell  you  about  night  before  last? 

Wife:     No. 

Husband :  Well,  that  night  he  slept  over  at  Cousin 
Ruthie's  house.  All  his  nightgowns  were  dirty  so  Aunt 
Ella  made  him  wear  one  of  Ruthie's.  But  she  had  the 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  263 

hardest  time  making  him  wear  it.  The  next  morning  he 
said  to  me,  "I'm  glad  I  ain't  a  woman,  ain't  you,  Paw?" 
"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  I.  "Why?"  "Oh,  they're  all 
right,  I  guess,"  he  said,  "but  before  I'll  wear  another  of 
those  women's  nightgowns,  I'll  go  to  bed  raw." 

Wife  (Smiling) :  Little  man.  Does  he  ask  for  me 
much? 

Husband:  Just  this  morning  he  said,  "Pop,  you  tell 
mamma  to  come  back  quick  or  I'll  elope  with  the  ice 
man."  *  *  *  Well,  they're  good  children.  I  don't 
think  any  one  ever  had  better.  And  that's  something, 
isn't  it? 

Wife :  That's  everything.  They  make  me  very  happy. 
*  *  *  You  know,  dear,  I  have  been  doing  a  good  deal 
of  thinking  since  I  came  here.  I've  seen  things  very 
clearly,  clearer  than  even  at  home.  I  think  I've  been 
able  to  tell  why  I've  been  so  happy.  You  find  out  what's 
really  worth  while  in  a  time  like  this,  don't  you?  (Hus- 
band nods.) 

Wife:  I  won't  say  anything  about  you.  You  know. 
But  the  children.  (She  smiles.)  Yes,  I  know  why  I've 
been  happy. 

WILLIAM  J.  NEIDIG 

Iowa  and  Illinois  may  rightly  contest  the  claim  of  Wiscon- 
sin for  a  proprietary  interest  in  Mr.  William  Jonathan  Neidig. 
He  was  born  in  the  first-named  state,  and  is  at  present  living 
in  Chicago,  where  he  is  engaged  in  business,  though  he  still 
finds  time  for  an  occasional  story  or  poem.  He  was  a  member 
of  the  faculty  in  the  English  Department  of  the  University  of 
Wisconsin  from  1905  to  1911,  and  it  was  during  approximately 
this  period  of  his  life  that  his  literary  activity  was  greatest. 
"The  First  Wardens,"  which  was  nominated  for  the  Nobel 
prize  in  idealistic  literature,  was  published  in  1905,  and  several 
critical  works  that  attracted  wide  attention  came  from  his  pen 
during  his  Wisconsin  residence. 

The  one  poem  which  we  quote  here  shows  an  evenness  of 


264  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

power  and  an  assurance  of  touch  that  mark  real  poetry.  It 
also  would  be  generally  recognized,  the  editors  feel,  as  having 
been  written  by  a  University  man. 

THE  BUOY-BELL 

From  "THE  FIRST  WARDENS."     Copyright,  1905,  The  Macmillan 
Co. 

Bell!     Bell! 

Bell  that  rideth  the  breakers'  crest, 
Bell  of  the  shallows,  tell,  O  tell: 
The  swell  and  fall  of  foam  on  the  sand, 
Storm  in  the  face  from  sea  to  land, 
Roar  of  gray  tempest:  these,  O  bell, 
What  say  these  of  the  West? 

Tell!     O  tell! 

Bell!     Bell! 

Crowding  the  night  with  cries,  O  tell: 
What  of  the  moorings  in  the  silt? 
What  of  the  blooms  that  drift  and  wilt? 
What  of  the  sea-chest  wrenched  wide? 
Is  it  safe  harbor  by  thy  side? 
Bell  that  rideth  the  breakers'  crest, 
What  say  these  of  the  West? 

Tell!     O  tell! 

Bell!     Bell! 
It  is  a  dirge  the  bell  is  tolling, 

A  dirge  for  the  silent  dead, — 
With  the  cold  sea  rolling,  rolling,  rolling, 

Rolling  each  restless  head. 
Bell  that  rideth  the  breakers'  crest, 
O,  when  will  they  lie  all  quietly, 

Un tossed  by  the  slow  sea-swell: 
Nor  breakers  brave  on  the  great  sea-beach, 
Nor  ceaseless  crash  of  the  cresting  sea, 
Nor  booming  headland's  sullen  knell, 

Nor  bell,  for  elegy? 
When  is  the  last  tide  out  of  the  West, 
And  the  last  restless  dream  for  each? 
Tell!     O  tell! 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  265 

Toll!  toll!  toll! 
Toll  for  the  ebbing  tide: 
Toll  for  the  lives  that  outward  ride: 
Toll  for  the  deep-delved  cold  sea-seat: 
Night  in  the  West  at  every  beat! 

Toll!  toll! 


BRAYLEY— WINSLOW— JONES. 

In  this  group  of  young  writers,  the  editors  present  what 
seems  to  them  to  be  the  best  work  done  by  students  or  young 
graduates  of  the  University  while  unquestionably  under  her 
influence.  They  wish  there  were  work  by  more  such  writers 
to  present.  Possibly  there  is  more  that  has  not  yet  been 
brought  to  their  attention. 

Berton  Brayley  has  written  extensively  for  newspapers.  He 
has  facility  in  rhyme  and  the  knack  of  "hitting  off"  a  verse 
that  well  fits  an  occasion.  One  has  the  feeling,  however,  that 
there  is  a. power  and  seriousness  to  the  man  that  have  not  yet 
found  adequate  expression.  Perhaps  in  the  next  ten  years  the 
qualities  of  ease,  leisureliness,  and  reflection  will  assert  them- 
selves more  in  his  poetry.  But  from  the  first  there  has  been 
a  wholesome  tone  about  his  work. 

Horatio  Winslow,  son  of  Chief  Justice  J.  B.  Winslow, 
showed  marked  ability  while  an  undergraduate.  He  was  a 
collaborator  in  the  writing  of  a  play  which  was  presented  by 
University  students.  As  with  Mr.  Brayley,  we  would  say  of 
him  that  his  best  work  has  not  yet  been  published.  There  is 
power  and  strength  and  grace  latent  in  him  that  have  not  yet 
found  expression,  but  that  are  unmistakably  foretold  in  the 
things  he  has  already  produced. 

Howard  Mumford  Jones  is  the  youngest  of  these  three  men, 
and  comes  from  the  spirit-haunted  region  of  the  Mississippi. 
While  his  poems  have  not  yet  attained  absolute  surety  of  touch 
and  evenness  of  movement,  yet  of  those  presented  in  this  group 
they  probably  evince  the  most  grace  and  music,  together  with 
the  highest  and  warmest  poetic  feeling.  "When  Shall  We  To- 
gether" has  real  sweep  and  atmosphere  and  glow.  It  is  the 
production  of  a  poet  who  loved  the  subject  he  was  writing 
about. 

SOMETIMES 

Sometimes  I  long  for  a  lazy  isle, 

Ten  thousand  miles  from  home, 
Where  the  warm  sun  shines  and  the  blue  skies  smile 

And  the  milk-white  breakers  foam — 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

A  coral  island,  bravely  set 

In  the  midst  of  the  Southern  sea, 
Away  from  the  hurry  and  noise  and  fret 

Forever  surrounding  me! 

For  I  tire  of  labor  and  care  and  fight, 

And  I  weary  of  plan  and  scheme, 
And  ever  and  ever  my  thoughts  take  flight 

To  the  island  of  my  dream; 
And  I  fancy  drowsing  the  whole  day  long 

In  a  hammock  that  gently  swings — 
Away  from  the  clamorous,  toiling  throng, 

Away  from  the  swirl  of  things! 

And  yet  I  know,  in  a  little  while, 

When  the  first  glad  hours  were  spent, 
I'd  sicken  and  tire  of  my  lazy  isle 

And  cease  to  be  content! 
I'd  hear  the  call  of  the  world's  great  game — 

And  battle  with  gold  and  men — 
And  I'd  sail  once  more,  with  a  heart  of  flame, 

Back  to  the  game  again! 

— Berton  Braley. 
Saturday  Evening  Post,  January  15,  1916. 


THE  PIONEERS 

Current  Opinion,  Volume  L.IV,  Page  497.      (First  published  In 
The  Coming:  Nation.) 

We're  the  men  that  always  march  a  bit  before       .    . 

Tho  we  cannot  tell  the  reason  for  the  same; 
We're  the  fools  that  pick  the  lock  that  holds  the  door — 

Play  and  lose  and  pay  the  candle  for  the  game. 
There's  no  blaze  nor  trail  nor  roadway  where  we  go; 

There's  no  painted  post  to  point  the  right-of-way, 
But  we  swing  our  sweat-grained  helves,  and  we  chop  a  path 
ourselves 

To  Tomorrow  from  the  land  of  Yesterday. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  267 

It's  infrequent  that  we're  popular  at  home, 

(Like  King  David  we're  not  built  for  tending  sheep,) 
And  we  scoff  at  living  a  la  metronome, 

And  quite  commonly  we're  cynical  and  cheap. 
True — we  cannot' hold  a  job  to  save  our  lives; 

We're  a  dreamy  lot  and  steady  work's  a  bore — 
'Til  the  luring  of  the  Quest  routs  us  out  from  sleep  and  rest 

And  we  rope  and  tie  the  world  and  call  for  more. 


Well,  they  try  to  hold  us  back  by  foolish  words — 

But  we  go  ahead  and  do  the  thing  we've  planned; 
Then  they  drive  us  out  to  shelter  with  the  birds — 

And  the  ravens  bring  our  breakfast  to  our  hand. 
So  they  jail  us  and  we  lecture  to  the  guards; 

They  beat  us — we  make  sermons  of  their  whips; 
They  feed  us  melted  lead  and  behold  the  Word  is  said. 

That  shall  burn  upon  a  million  living  lips. 


Are  we  fighters? By  our  fellows  we  are  fanged. 

Are  we  workers? Paid  with  blows  we  never  earned. 

Are  we  doctors? Other  doctors  see  us  hanged. 

Are  we  teachers? Brother  teachers  have  us  burned. 

But  through  all  a  Something  somehow  holds  us  fast 

'Spite  of  every  beast-hung  brake  and  steaming  fen; 
And  we  keep  the  torch  on  high  till  a  comrade  presses  by 

When  we  pass  it  on  and  die — and  live  again! 


A  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  LOCAL  VERSE 

f 

Author    of    "The   Masque   of   Marsh    and    River. 
Copyright,  1915.   by  the  Author. 
Pages   13-14. 

When  shall  we  together 

Tramp  beneath  the  sky, 
Thrusting  through  the  weather 
As  swimmers  strive  together, 

You  and  I? 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

How  we  ranged  the  valleys, 

Panted  up  the  road, 
Sang  in  sudden  sallies 
Of  mirth  that  woke  the  valleys 

Where  we  strode! 

Glad  and  free  as  birds  are, 

Laughter  in  your  eyes, 
Wild  as  poets'  words  are, 
You  were  as  the  birds  are, 

Very  wise. 

Not  for  you  the  prison 

Of  the  stupid  town; 
When  the  winds  were  risen, 
You  went  forth  from  prison, 

You  went  down, 

Down  along  the  river 

Dimpling  in  the  rain, 
Where  the  poplars  shiver 
By  the  dancing  river, 

And  again 

Climbed  the  hills  behind  you 
When  the  rains  were  done; 

Only  God  could  find  you 

With  the  town  behind  you 
In  the  sun! 

Don't  you  hear  them  calling, 

Blackbirds  in  the  grain, 
Silver  raindrops  falling 
Where  the  larks  are  calling 

You  in  vain? 

Comrade,  when  together 

Shall  we  tramp  again 
In  the  summer  weather, 
You  and  I  together, 

Now  as  then? 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  269 

JOSEPH  P.  WEBSTER. 

No  one  who  reads  this  book  is  unfamiliar  with  "The  Sweet 
Bye  and  Bye."  But  how  many  of  us,  as  we  sang  that  song, 
realized  that  both  its  words  and  music  were  written  by  a  Wis- 
consin man, — Joseph  P.  Webster? 

He  was  born  in  New  Hampshire  in  1819,  but  he  lived  most 
of  his  life  at  Elkhorn,  where  he  died  in  1875.  He  was  a  mem- 
ber of  many  musical  societies,  and  was  the  composer  of  many 
other  songs,  the  best  known  of  the  latter  being  "Lorena." 


SWEET  BYE  AND  BYE 

Composed   by    Joseph    Philbrick    Webster,    February,    1868. 


There's  a  land  that  is  fairer  than  day, 
And  by  faith  we  can  see  it  afar, 
For  the  Father  waits  over  the  way, 
To  prepare  us  a  dwelling  place  there. 

Chorus. 

In  the  sweet  by  and  by, 

We  shall  meet  on  that  beautiful  shore; 

In  the  sweet  by  and  by, 

We  shall  meet  on  that  beautiful  shore. 


II. 

We  shall  sing  on  that  beautiful  shore 
The  melodious  songs  of  the  blest, 
And  our  spirits  shall  sorrow  no  more — 
Not  a  sigh  for  the  blessings  of  rest. 

III. 

To  our  bountiful  Father  above, 
We  will  offer  the  tribute  of  praise, 
For  the  glorious  gifts  of  His  love, 
And  the  blessings  that  hallow  our  days. 


WRITERS  OF  LOCAL  DISTINCTION 

The  greatest  difficulty  confronting  the  compilers  of  any 
anthology  is  involved  in  the  necessary  exclusion,  through  lack 
of  space,  or  else,  in  some  instances,  through  lack  of  unmis- 
takable manifestation  of  literary  merit,  of  some  authors  and 
selections  that  would  no  doubt  be  welcomed  by  many  readers 
of  the  volume.  In  the  present  work  it  has  been  the  main  pur- 
pose to  set  forth  in  due  prominence  the  works  of  those  writers 
of  our  state  who  have  displayed  unmistakable  literary  merit, 
and  who  have,  beyond  doubt,  possessed  both  a  message  and  a 
marked  facility  in  giving  it  to  the  world.  We  now  come  to 
those  who.  usually  despite  the  rigorous  exactions  of  hurried 
and  anxious  frontier  lives,  have  sensed  the  essential  elements 
of  poetry  or  story  in  their  workaday  lives,  and  have  had  the 
courage  and  optimism  necessary  to  write  and  publish. 

To  show  just  what  courage  it  took  and  just  what  spirit 
impelled  these  writers,  let  us  quote  from  the  preface  to 

A  COUNTRY  GIRL'S  PATE 

BY  C.  F.  SHERIFF. 


"When  Ed.  Coe,  of  Whitewater,  Wisconsin,  began 
some  twelve  years  ago  publishing  Cold  Spring  items, 
signed  by  *  Greenhorn,'  he  published  the  first  lines  I  ever 
wrote,  at  which  time  some  spirit  (or  some  unseen  thing) 
seemed  to  be  always  whispering  in  my  ear  that  I  must 
write  a  book. 

"Never  could  I  drive  from  me  these  thoughts,  and 
situated  as  I  was,  with  plenty  of  farm  work  to  do,  no 
education  at  all,  no  knowledge  of  such  business,  no  friends 
to  help  me,  but  lots  to  kick  me  down,  I  can  tell  you  I 
was  pretty  well  discouraged,  and  if  I  had  not  had  lots  of 
courage,  the  contents  of  this  book  would  not  have  been 
written. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  271 

"This  work  is  the  only  kind  of  work  that  I  can  get 
interested  in,  and  should  I  pass  to  the  mysterious  beyond 
without  gaining  any  name  in  this  way,  I  would  declare 
with  my  last  breath  that  my  life,  as  far  as  myself  was 
concerned,  had  been  a  failure." 


DEW  DROPS 

Something  of  the  same  impulse  is  found  in  this  dedication 
of  the  volume  "Dew  Drops,"  by  Leda  Bond  (Mrs.  F.eldsmith). 

"This  little  book  is  fondly  dedicated  to  Raymond  and 
Leotta,  my  two  beloved  children,  who,  when  the  shades 
of  sorrow  closed  around  me,  stretched  forth  their  baby 
fingers,  and  parting  the  curtains  of  gloom,  revealed  once 
more  the  gladsome  light  of  a  happier  day." 

We  feel  that  the  names  of  some  of  these  courageous 
and  happy  pioneers  should  be  given  in  this  volume,  together 
with  brief  selections  from  some  of  their  works.  Some  of 
the  verses  here  given  will  show  sure  sense  of  rhyme  and 
pleasing  balance  and  reserve.  Some  have,  it  Is  true,  little  to 
commend  them  but  the  evident  longing  to  express  the  song 
that  was  in  the  soul  rather  than  on  the  lips.  But  who  can  say 
how  much  the  more  successful  ones,  who  have  won  deserved 
fame  and  plaudits,  owe  to  the  more  obscure  who  sought,  with 
more  meagre  measure  of  success,  to  show  that  there  is  poetry 
and  song  and  story  in  Wisconsin? 


POEMS  OF  A  DAY. 

A  Collection  of  Fugitive  Poems  Written  Among  the  Cares  and 
Labors  of  Daily  Journalism. 

By   A.   M.   THOMSON. 
(Then  Editor  of  the  Sentinel),  Milwaukee,  1873. 

DEATH  OF  GOVERNOR  HARVEY 

Bow  down  thy  head,  O  Commonwealth, 
Tis  fitting  now  for  thee  to  weep; 

Thy  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  grave, 
In  which  our  chieftain  is  asleep. 


272  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONQ 

The  flags  at  half  mast  sadly  droop, 
The  bells  toll  out  a  solemn  wail, 

As  on  the  southern  breeze  there  comes, 
With  lightning  speed,  the  sick'ning  tale! 

O.  dreadful  night!     O,  fatal  step! 

O,  rushing  river's  angry  tide! 
Was  there  no  quick,  omniscient  arm 

To  save  a  life  so  true  and  tried? 

Breathe,  lofty  Pines,  his  requiem; 

Sing  paeans  in  thy  forest  gloom; 
And  ye,  ye  Prairies,  that  he  loved, 

Bring  Flora's  gems  to  deck  his  tomb. 

O,  State,  bereft  of  him  you  loved, 

O,  Mother,  from  thy  loving  breast, 

Our  friend  and  brother,  statesman,  chief, 
At  noon,  sinks  calmly  to  his  rest! 

We  cannot  hide  these  scalding  tears, 
But  kiss  in  trust  this  chast'ning  rod; 

Though  reason  sleeps,  faith  is  not  blind, 
But  sees  in  all  the  hand  of  God. 


BALLADS  OF  WAR  AND  PEACE. 

By  J.  H.  WHITNEY,  Baraboo,  Wisconsin. 
THE  MUSTER  ROLLS 

When  treason,  veiled  in  fair  disguise, 
And  clad  in  robes  of  state, 

Invoked  the  sword  to  cut  the  ties 
That  made  a  nation  great, 

Wisconsin  sounded  the  alarm, 
And  beat  the  battle-drum: 

Men  heard  from  office,  mill  and  farm, 
And  answered,  "Lo!  we  come." 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  273 

Down  from  the  rugged  northern  pines, 

Up  from  the  eastern  coast; 
From  riverside  and  southern  mines, 

Comes  forth  the  loyal  host. 

From  Gainesville  thru  the  wilderness 

They  march  with  fearless  tread, 
And  leave  behind,  as  on  they  press, 

An  army  of  the  dead. 

*      *      * 
Beneath  the  blue — above  the  green, 

Mid  flowers  of  fairest  hue, 
We  honor  now  with  reverent  mien, 

The  men  who  wore  the  blue. 

The  story  of  the  rolls  is  told. 

The  records,  worn  and  gray, 
Like  veterans,  are  growing  old, 

And  soon  shall  pass  away. 

But  deeds  of  valor  for  a  cause 

So  just,  shall  ever  shine, 
And  loyalty  to  righteous  laws 

Shall  live,  because  divine. 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  FANCY,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

By  MRS.  LJBBIE  C.  BAER. 
(Appleton,    Wisconsin.      Copyright,    1902,    by    the   Author.) 

IN  THE  LAND  OF  FANCY 

Never  a  cloud  to  darken  the  blue, 
Never  a  flower  to  lose  its  hue, 
Never  a  friend  to  prove  untrue 
In  the  beautiful  land  of  fancy. 

Never  a  joy  to  turn  to  pain, 
Never  a  hope  to  die  or  wane, 


274  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Never  a  boon  we  may  not  gain 

In  the  beautiful  land  of  fancy. 
Never  a  heart  turns  false  or  cold, 
Never  a  face  grows  gray  or  old, 
Never  a  love  we  may  not  hold 

In  the  beautiful  land  of  fancy. 

All  of  life  that  we  crave  or  miss, 
(The  world  denies  us  half  its  bliss), 
Free,  untrammelled,  we  have  in  this — 
In  the  beautiful  land  of  fancy. 


A  COLLECTION  OF  POEMS. 

By  J.  R.  HENDERSON.  Rlley,  Wisconsin. 

Copyright.  1896.   by  the  Author. 

We  give  here  a  selection  of  "Neighborhood  Verse,"  such 
as  may  achieve  much  local  fame  and  really  may  make  life 
more  worth  living. 

A  NUPTIAL  SALUTATION 

Neighbors  and  friends,  we  have  met  today, 

At  the  home  of  Jimmie  Clow, 
To  see  his  daughter  Mary  give  her  hand  away, 

And  take  the  marriage  vow. 

•To  see  Willie  Goodwin  get  a  wife, 

And  start  on  the  matrimonial  sea. 
Long  life,  health  and  happiness  to  him  and  his, 

Is  the  wish  of  this  whole  company. 

Now,  Willie,  lad,  here's  a  pipe  for  you, 

It's  a  present  from  old  Joe; 
And  when  you  take  your  evening  smoke 

You'll  remember  him,  I  know. 


And,  Mary,  lass,  here's  a  gift  for  you — 
Ah,  you'll  need  it  yet;  you'll  see. 

Take  it  now,  and  hide  it  away 
From  this  laughing  company. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  275 

SONGS  AND  SONNETS. 

By   MARY   M.   ADAMS. 

Copyright,    1901,  by   the  Author    (wife  of  Charles   Kendall  Adams, 
then    President    of    the    University    of   Wisconsin). 

WISCONSIN 

Sound  her  praise!   our  noble  State, 
All  her  strength  to  deeds  translate, 
Prove  her  shield  when  danger's  nigh, 
Read  her  banner  in  the  sky, 
Tell  of  her  in  song  and  story, 

All  her  past  with  love  illume, 
Show  her  present  robed  in  glory, 

Promise  of  a  larger  bloom. 

Morning  maid!  whose  day  began 
With  the  nobler  life  in  man, 
Sun-crowned  souls  reveal  thy  fame, 
Sacred  hopes  thy  laws  proclaim. 
O  Father!  hear  for  her  our  prayer, 

Bid  her  voice  Thine  own  decree, 
Let  all  her  growth  Thyself  declare, 

Guard  the  light  supplied  by  Thee! 

MY  BEST  POEM. 
You  ask  of  mine  the  poem  I  love  best, 

And  promise  it  shall  have  the  larger  light; 
Alas,  alas!  far,  far  beyond  the  rest 

I  love  the  poem  that  I  mean  to  write! 

THE  RICHEST  TIME  OF  LIFE 

MYRA   GOODWIN   PLANTZ.    1856-1914. 

From 

SONGS  OP  QUIET  HOURS. 
Copyright,  by  Pres.  Samuel  Plantz  and  reprinted  by  permission  of 

The   Methodist   Book    Concern. 

This  poem  was  written  to  her  mother  on  her  seventy-seventh 
birthday. 

The  spring  is  fair;  it  has  its  flowers, 
Its  happy  time  of  sun  and  showers; 
Then  summer  cometh  as  a  queen, 
With  roses  on  her  robe  of  green; 


276  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

But  autumn  brings  the  crimson  leaves 
And  wealth  of  golden,  garnered  sheaves, 
And  grapes  that  purple  on  the  vine, 
With  spring  and  summer  in  their  wine. 

The  morning  comes  with  rosy  light 
That  dims  the  candles  of  the  night, 
And  wakes  the  nestling  birds  to  song, 
And  sends  to  toil  the  brave  and  strong. 
Mid-day  and  afternoon  are  spent 
In  search  of  gold  or  heart-content; 
Then  comes  the  sunset's  glow  and  rest, 
And  this  of  all  the  days  is  best. 

The  baby  comes  with  Paradise 
Still  shining  in  his  smiling  eyes, 
And  childhood  passes  like  a  dream, 
As  lilies  float  upon  a  stream. 
Then  youth  comes  with  its  restless  heat, 
And  manhood,  womanhood,  replete 
With  care  and  pleasure,  joy  and  strife, 
Lead  to  the  richest  part  of  life. 

And  it  has  reached  these,  mother  dear, 
The  sunny,  mellow  time  of  year; 
Though  with  a  climate  of  thine  own, 
In  constant  sun  thy  soul  has  grown. 
Time  counts  not  helpful,  happy  years — 
He  only  numbers  sighs  and  tears; 
So  rich  in  blessings,  strong  in  truth, 
Thou  hast  not  age,  but  richer  youth. 

WAYSIDE  FLOWERS. 

By  CARRIE  CARLTON. 
(Mrs.  M.  H.   Chamberlain.) 

A  SPELL  IS  ON  MY  SPIRIT 

A  spell  is  on  my  spirit 

And  I  cannot,  cannot  write, 

All  the  teeming  thoughts  of  glory 
That  crowd  my  soul  tonight. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  277 

They  come  in  quick  succession, 

Like  the  phantoms  in  a  dream; 
And  they  surge  in  shadowy  billows, 

Like  the  mist  upon  a  stream. 

Oh!  had  I  but  the  language, 

I  would  give  these  visions  birth; 
I  would  shadow  their  glorious  meaning, 

And  their  untold,  hidden  worth. 
They  were  raised  by  wild  thanksgiving, 

For  a  blessed  answered  prayer; 
And  their  fleeting,  changing  beauty, 

Held  my  spirit  breathless  there. 

I  had  pleaded,  oh,  how  earnest 

For  one  precious,  precious  boon; 
For  one  gift  to  cheer  this  bosom, 

That  was  desolate  so  soon. 
Now  I  know  my  prayer  is  answered, 

And  my  soul  would  fain  adore, 
Him  whose  promise  is  forever, 

And  is  faithful  evermore. 


UNDER  THE  PINES. 

By  ADA  F.  MOORE. 
Published  by  West  and  Co.,  Milwaukee,   1875. 

LINES  FOR  THE  TIMES 

There's  a  certain  class  of  people 

In  this  sublunary  sphere — 

(And  if  I'm  not  mistaken, 

You'll  find  them  even  here), 

Who  think  the  rare  old  precept 

To  the  old  Athenians  given, 

And  esteemed  so  full  of  wisdom 

That  they  deemed  it  came  from  Heaven, — 


278  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

In  this  glorious  age  of  progress 

Has  become  quite  obsolete; 

So  they  choose  another  motto, 

For  these  latter  times  more  meet. 

It  is  "know  thyself"  no  longer — 

So  they  say,  and  who  can  doubt  them — 

But  "Mortal,  know  thy  neighbors, 

And  everything  about  them!" 

To  attain  this  worthy  object, 
All  other  cares  forego; 
To  gain  this  glorious  knowledge, 
Tou  cannot  stoop  too  low. 
Heed  not  the  ancient  croakers, 
Who  ask.  with  solemn  phiz — 
"Is  it  anybody's  business 
What  another's  business  is?" 

No!  we'd  join  the  glorious  party, 
That  to  giant  size  has  grown, 
To  mind  our  neighbor's  business, 
And  "Know  nothing"  of  our  own, 
Hurrah!  for  the  Rights  of  Meddlers! 
For  the  freedom  of  our  day! 
For  the  glorious  Age  of  Progress! 
And  for  Young  America! 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  WISCONSIN  AND  OTHER 
POEMS. 

By    HARRY    LATHROP. 
Published  by  Review  Print.   Flint,   Mich.,   In  1903. 

THE  MAN  WHO  LAUGHS 

He  loves  to  make  another  laugh 
And  laugh  himself  as  well. 
Nor  any  one  around  one-half 
So  good  a  joke  can  tell. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  279 

The  less  of  pain  a  man  can  give, 
The  more  of  joy  he  scatters; 
The  more  excuse  for  him  to  live — 
Apart  from  weightier  matters. 

Then  emulate  the  men  who  laugh, 
Good  health  and  mirth  are  catching, 
The  wine  of  joy  is  ours  to  quaff, 
Life's  duties  while  despatching. 

OVER  THE  DIVIDE. 

And  other  Verses. 

By  MARION   MANVILLE. 

Copyright,   1887.  by  the   Author. 

PRELUDE 

But  one  of  a  thousand  voices, 

Oh,  how  can  one  voice  be  heard, 

When  ninety  and  nine  and  nine  hundred 
Are  chanting  the  same  old  word? 

But  one.  of  a  thousand  singers, 

What  song  can  I  sing,  oh  pray, 
That  is  not  sung  over  and  over, 

And  over  again  today? 

VISIONS  OF  A  CITIZEN. 

By  PROFESSOR  J.  J.  BLAISDELL  (1827-1896),  Beloit  College. 
Copyright,   1897.   J.  A.  Blaisdell. 

EXTRACT  FROM  AN  ADDRESS  (p,  10). 

One  cannot  be  a  good  citizen  of  Wisconsin  without 
being  a  good  citizen  of  America.  One  cannot  be  a  good 
citizen  of  America  without  being  a  good  citizen  of  the 
Commonwealth  of  all  nations.  One  cannot  be  a  good 
citizen  of  the  world  Commonwealth  without  being  a  good 
citizen  of  the  Universal  Kingdom  of  God's  moral  order. 
Wisconsin  citizenship,  magnificent  lesson  to  be  learned! 


280  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

JOHN  NAGLE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

Complied  by  SYDNEY  T.  PRATT.  Manitowoc,  Wisconsin. 

Entered  according:  to  the  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1901,  in  the 

office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington, 

by  Sydney  T.  Pratt. 

AUTUMN 

There  is  something  in  the  approach  of  autumn,  the 
border  land  of  summer,  that  is  depressing,  just  as  if  the 
shadow  of  death  were  brooding  over  the  future.  There 
are  dark  clouds  in  the  sky  which  cut  off  the  sunshine; 
there  is  a  gloom  in  the  heart  which  darkens  hope  and 
makes  life  "scarcely  worth  living."  The  wind  has  a 
mournful  cadence,  and  the  trees  saw  as  if  the  motion  were 
a  sigh  of  sorrow.  Everything  seems  to  harmonize  with  tho 
prevailing  spirit  of  sadness,  and  animate  nature  moans 
forth  a  dirge.  Dew  drops  seem  like  tears,  and  the  even- 
ing breeze  is  a  sigh.  The  moon  itself  seems  to  wear  a  garb 
of  grief  and  floats  among  the  clouds,  a  tear-stained  Diana. 
It  is  a  season  for  men  to  grow  mad,  for  anguish  to  gnaw 
at  the  heart,  and  for  melancholy  to  usurp  the  throne  of 
reason.  The  retina  only  receives  dark  impressions,  the 
tympanum  transmits  none  but  doleful  sounds.  One  is 
feasted  on  dismal  thoughts  on  every  hand  until  it  be- 
comes a  regular  symposium  of  sorrow.  Those  imps,  the 
Blues,  that  feed  one  on  dejection,  are  in  their  heyday,  im- 
placable as  a  Nemesis,  persistent  as  a  Devil.  They  revel 
in  gloom  and  drag  one  down  to  the  Slough  of  Despond. 
Work  is  performed  mechanically,  and  what  in  its  nature 
is  amusement,  is  now  a  bore.  One  "sucks  melancholy 
from  a  song  as  a  weasel  sucks  eggs,"  and  longs  for  night 
that  he  may  seek  forgetfulness  in  sleep — the  twin-sister 
of  Death.  A  miserable  world  this,  when  the  year  is 
falling  "into  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf;"  and  there  is  a 
lingering  wish  that  the  shadows  which  come  from  the 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  281 

West  would  bring  that  icy  breath  that  gives  forgetful- 
ness  and  rest. 

POEMS. 

By  WILFRID   EARL   CHASE,    Madison. 
Copyright,  IT  13,  by  the  Author. 

FAITH 

Maze  of  antinomies  and  miracles! 

Bewildered,  purblind  we  are  led  along 

This  rock-strewn,  flower-decked,  mystic,  wondrous  way. 

Whence  came?     What  are  we?     Whither  are  we  led? 

Wherefore  journey  we?     Why  such  fickle  path? 

And  Nature's  myriad  answers,  voiced  in  the  storm's 

Wild  tumult,  fringed  on  the  gentian's  azure  cup, 

Or  limned  on  human  brow,  we  would  descry, — 

And  some  we  darkly  guess,  and  some  we  almost  know. 

BOOK  OF  THE  GREEN  LAKE  MANSE. 

A  SEQUEL  TO  THE  RHYMED  STORY  OF  WISCONSIN. 
By   J.   N.   DAVIDSON. 

MY  NEIGHBOR'S  CHICKENS 

(The  following  verses  express  no  grievance  of  my  own.  I 
could  not  ask  for  more  considerate  neighbors.  But  all  gar- 
deners are  not  so  fortunate,  and  it  is  for  their  sake  and  at  the 
suggestions  of  one  of  them  that  these  lines  were  written.) 

Sometimes  I  say  "The  Dickens! 
There  are  my  neighbor's  chickens!" 
My  neighbor  I  like  well 
But — let  me  grievance  tell — 
I  do  not  like  his  chickens;— 
Save  when  he  bids  me  to  a  roast 
And  plays  the  part  of  kindly  host. 

My  garden  is  most  dear  to  me 
From  carrot  bed  to  apple  tree, 
And  so  my  patience  sickens 
When  I  behold  the  chickens 
In  it  and  scratching  merrily. 


282  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Dark  gloom  grows  darker,  thickens, 
In  looking  at  those  chickens. 

A  certain  scientific  man 

Once  called  the  hen  "A  feeble  bird." 

It  is,  I'm  sure,  on  no  such  plan 

My  neighbor's  hens  are  built;  the  word 

"Feeble"  to  them  does  not  apply. 

I  wish  Professor  would  stand  by 

And  see  those  hens  make  mulching  fly. 

Or  let  him  watch  them  as  they  eat 
My  cauliflower  choice  and  sweet, 
Or  gorge  themselves  on  berries  fine; 
The  way  they  always  do  with  mine. 
They  run  on  their  destructive  feet 
From  stalk  to  stalk,  from  vine  to  vine, 
Or  scratch  as  if  they  dug  a  mine. 

And  so,  my  neighbor,  won't  you  please, 
My  cares  dispel,  my  troubles  ease, 
By  keeping  all  your  hens  at  home? 
Soon,  soon  the  very  earth  will  freeze 
And  then  the  fowls  at  large  may  roam. 
So  I'll  not  need  the  pen  of  Dickens 
To  tell  my  horror  of  your  chickens! 


TO  MY  NEIGHBORS  AT  HILL  CREST 

Shall  I  do  dear  Sam  a  wrong 
If  I  write  no  little  song 
Telling  how  he  pleases  Grace, 
Brings  the  light  to  Tompie's  face, 
Shares  their  play  or  runs  a  race, 
Merry  all  about  the  place? 

No;  I'd  do  the  duck  no  wrong 
If  I  failed  to  make  the  song. 
He'll  not  care  for  verse  or  rhyme. 
But  this  pleasant  summer-time 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  283 

I  have  seen  my  little  neighbors, 
Happy  in  their  kindly  labors 
Making  Sam  and  others  glad, 
So  I  say,  "God  bless  the  lad; 
Bless  the  lassie";  and  I  know 
That  the  love  to  Sam  they  show 
Makes  their  own  hearts  richer,  truer; 
Makes  the  sky  seem  brighter,  bluer; 
Makes  them  to  us  all  a  joy 
(I  mean  duck,  and  girl,  and  boy). 

So  I'd  surely  do  a  wrong 

If  I  did  not  say  in  song 

To  loved  Tompie  and  Miss  Grace 

(Merry  all  about  the  place) 

That  their  duck's  important,  quite, 

With  his  new-grown  feathers  white; 

But  the  more  important  thing 

Is  their  love;  of  this  I  sing! 


IN  THE  LIMESTONE  VALLEY. 

PEN    PICTURES    OF    EARLY    DAYS    IN    WESTERN    WISCONSIN. 

By  S.  W.  BROWN. 
Copyright,  1900,  La  Crosse,  Wisconsin. 

FROM   CHAPTER    II,    pp.    37-38. 

Such  was  Neoshone,  as  the  Indians  who  frequently 
camped  there  called  it  when  the  first  white  man  stood  on 
the  bank  of  the  river  and  watched  the  rushing  waters 
flow  swiftly  by.  They  had  borne  the  red  man  in  his 
canoe,  and  around  this  very  spot  the  Winnebago  hunter 
had  secured  fine  strings  of  ducks,  and  for  generations 
had  trapped  for  mink  and  gathered  in  abundance  the 
fish  that  swarmed  in  every  eddy  and  pool. 

The  hill  at  the  north  was  crowned  with  a  beautiful 
grove  of  young  oak  trees,  and,  standing  on  its  slope,  the 
early  pioneer  beheld  before  his  eyes  a  magnificent  pano- 


284  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

rama.  In  the  distance  the  everlasting  hills  seemed  to 
stand  guard  round  and  about  it  as  did  the  walls  of  the 
Jewish  capitol  encircle  its  sacred  precincts. 

Valley,  hillside,  prairie,  and  plain,  stretched  away 
from  the  spectator's  feet  in  varying  lines  and  curves, 
while  down  the  center  rolled  the  grand  old  river.  It 
seemed  like  a  second  Canaan,  waiting  for  the  coming  of 
the  chosen  people,  its  soil  ready  to  be  waked  by  the  share 
of  the  settler's  plow,  when  crops  would  come  forth  as  if 
touched  by  the  magician's  wand. 

From 
"ON  GROWING  OLD." 

By  NEAL,  BROWN. 

Read   before   the   Phantom   Club,   Ooonomowoc.   Wisconsin, 
April   15,   1913. 

***** 

Growing  old  has  many  stages.  You  can  remember  the 
time  when,  in  reading  your  favorite  author,  you  were 
disgusted  to  find  that  he  had  made  his  hero  forty  years 
old,  and  you  wondered  how  he  could  be  guilty  of  imput- 
ing romance  to  such  an  unconscionable  age.  By  and  by, 
even  though  you  found  forty  years  to  be  the  old  age  of 
youth,  you  were  solaced  by  the  thought  that  it  was  the 
youth  of  old  age,  and  still  later  you  will  wonder  where 
youth  ends  and  old  age  begins. 

In  many  assemblages  you  once  found  yourself  the 
youngest  man,  or  among  the  youngest.  But  with  swift- 
flying  years,  you  finally  found  yourself  equal  in  age  to 
most  of  those  in  all  assemblies ;  but  the  time  comes  when 
only  younger  men  are  crowding  around  you.  And  when 
you  try  to  evade  the  thought  that  you  are  growing  old, 
along  comes  some  kindly  friend  with  the  greeting,  "How 
young  you  are  looking." 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  285 

You  grow  to  regard  as  babes,  wild,  young  blades  of 
forty  or  fifty.  You  may  comfort  yourself  with,  the 
thought  expressed  by  Holmes.  He  says  that  he  could 
feel  fairly  immune  from  death  as  long  as  older  men  whom 
he  knew,  still  remained,  especially  if  they  were  of  a  much 
greater  age  than  himself.  They  were  farther  out  on  the 
skirmish  line,  and  must  be  taken  first. 


MY  ALLEGIANCE. 

By  CORA   KEL.LEY  WHEELER,   Marshfleld,    Wisconsin. 
Copyright,  1896,  The  Editor  Publishing:  Company. 

FROM   "MY   LADY   ELEANOR,"   pp.    119-20. 

I  was  wounded  at  Acre.  My  strong  right  arm  will 
never  strike  another  blow  for  the  glory  of  the  Cross.  I 
started  sadly  out,  in  spite,  of  our  victory,  for  my  western 
home. 

I  thought  to  look  in  Eleanor's  face  once  more,  and  see 
if  the  years  had  brought  any  tender  thoughts  of  me  into 
her  heart.  If  not,  I  should  never  trouble  her  with  any 
claim  of  mine.  I  knew  she  passed  her  time  in  works  of 
charity,  and  that  the  house  of  Savoy  had  never  held  the 
love  and  reverence  of  the  people  before  as  it  held  it  today, 
under  the  rule  of  my  Lady  Eleanor. 

We  reached  Savoy.  In  the  old  days  I  carried  to  the 
lady  of  my  heart  a  reprieve  from  death ;  but  to  me  she 
brought  now  a  reprieve  that  took  all  the  grief  and  sorrow 
out  of  my  life,  as  she  laid  her  sweet  face  on  my  breast  and 
whispered,  "I  have  loved  you  ever  since  the  night  you 
brought  me  home;  why  did  you  ever  leave  me?"  With 
the  love  of  the  Duchess  of  Savoy  began  a  new  life ;  but 
to  me  she  will  ever  bo,  as  when  T  loved  her  first,  "My 
Lady  Eleanor." 


OTHER  WISCONSIN  WRITERS  AND 
THEIR  WORKS. 

ALBERTINE  W.  MOORE,  Echoes  from  Mistland,  Norway 
Music  Album. 

MARION  V.  DUDLEY,  Poems. 

ELLA  A.  GILES,  Maiden  Rachael,  Out  from  the  Shadows, 
Bachelor  Ben,  Flowers  of  the  Spirit. 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL.  Percival's  Poems. 

CHARLES  NOBLE  GREGORY,  Poems. 

JULIA  AND  MEDORA  CLARK,  Driftwood. 

CHARLOTTA  PERRY,  (pseud.)  Carlotta  Perry's  Poems, 
1888. 

JOHN  GOADBY  GREGORY,  A  Beauty  of  Thebes  and  Other 
Verses. 

FLORENCE  C.  REID,  Jack's  Afire,  Survival  of  the  Fittest. 

KENT  KENNAN,  Sketches. 

MYRON  E.  BAKER,  Vacation.  Thoughts. 

JOSEPH  V.  COLLINS,  of  Stevens  Point,  Sketches. 

MYRA  EMMONS.  of  Stevens  Point,  Short  Stories. 

JULIA  M.  TASCHER,  of  Stevens  Point,  Arbutus  and  Dan- 
delions, a  Novel. 

ADA  F.  MOORE,  (Mrs.  John  Phillips,  of  Stevens  Point,) 
Under  the  Pines. 

MRS.  E.  M.  TASCHER,  (Mother  of  Julia  M.  Tascher),  The 
Story  of  Stevens  Point. 

JOHN  HICKS,  of  Oshkosh,  lately  Minister  Plenipotentiary 
of  the  United  States  to  Peru,  The  Man  from  Oshkosh. 

JULIUS  TAYLOR  CLARK,  formerly  of  Madison,  The  Ojibue 
Conquest. 

GEORGE  GRIMM,  of  Milwaukee,  Pluck,  a  Story  of  a  Little 
Immigrant  Boy. 

GENESSEE  RICHARDSON,  of  Oconomowoc,  My  Castle  in 
the  Air. 

CHESTER  L.  SAXBY,  of  Superior,  A  Captain  of  the  King. 

MISS  L.  J.  DICKINSON,  of  Superior,  John  O'Dreams. 

GEORGE  STEELE,  of  Whitewater,  Deidre. 

JULIUS  C.  BIRGE,  (the  first  white  child  born  in  White- 
water.) The  Awakening  of  the  Desert. 

JOSEPH  P.  DYSART,  Milwaukee,  Grace  Porter,  a  Jewel 
Lost  and  Found. 

MARGARET  ASHMUN,  Poems  and  Short  Stories. 


WISCONSIN  HUMORISTS 

Among  the  many  purposes  authors  have  for  producing  lit- 
erature is  that  of  pure  fun  or  humor.  If  the  writer  attempts 
to  reform  by  laughing  at  his  people,  we  designate  his  work  as 
satire.  With  this  type  of  literature  we  have  nothing  to  do  here, 
but  much  literature  has  been  produced  within  the  state  that 
has  for  its  purpose  the  laughing  with  the  readers.  It  attempts 
to  amuse  through  affording  a  pleasing  surprise.  The  unex- 
pected which  engenders  this  surprise  may  be  that  of  situation, 
of  ignorance,  or  of  the  mingling  of  sense  and  nonsense  in  a 
perplexing  manner. 

This  last  means  of  engendering  surprise  and  the  resulting 
humor  grew  up  quite  largely  among  writers  of  the  Middle 
West  during  and  since  the  Civil  War.  It  is  often  spoken  of  as 
American  humor.  It  may  be  illustrated  by  a  short  selection 
from  Edgar  Wilson  Nye's  Comic  History  of  the  United  States, 
which  will  show  the  point  of  mingling  real  historical  facts 
with  statements  quite  ridiculous  in  many  instances.  Let  the 
reader  attempt  to  determine  which  statements  are  historical 
sense  and  which  are  smart  or  even  pure  nonsense. 

"On  December  16,  1773,  occurred  the  tea-party  at  Boston, 
which  must  have  been  a  good  deal  livelier  than  those  of  today. 
The  historian  regrets  that  he  was  not  there;  he  would  have 
tried  to  be  the  life  of  the  party. 

"England  had  finally  so  arranged  the  price  of  tea  that,  in- 
eluding  the  tax,  it  was  cheaper  in  America  than  in  the  old 
country.  This  exasperated  the  patriots,  who  claimed  that  they 
were  confronted  by  a  theory  and  not  a  condition.  At  Charles- 
ton this  tea  was  stored  in  damp  cellars,  where  it  spoiled.  New 
York  and  Philadelphia  returned  their  ship,  but  the  British 
would  not  allow  any  shenanagin,  as  George  III.  so  tersely 
termed  it,  in  Boston. 

"Therefore  a  large  party  met  in  Faneuil  Hall  and  decided 
that  the  tea  should  not  be  landed.  A  party  made  up  as  Indians 
and,  going  on  board,  threw  the  tea  overboard.  Boston  Harbor, 
as  far  out  as  the  Bug  Light,  even  today,  is  said  to  be  carpeted 
with  tea-grounds." 

Wisconsin  writers  have  attempted  this  type  of  humor.  Two 
of  these  whose  lives  have  been  more  or  less  connected  with 
the  history  of  River  Falls,  are  mentioned  here.  The  first  of 
these  labored  quite  as  earnestly  to  cultivate  the  serious  side  of 
literature  as  he  did  the  humorous.  As  a  result  his  little  volume 
entitled  "Lute  Taylor's  Chip  Basket,"  is  filled  with  even  more 
of  the  quite  serious  of  life's  lessons  expressed  in  poems  and 
essays  than  of  the  ludicrous.  He  mingled  both  in  his  book  as 


288  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

a  real  manifestation  of  his  philosophy  of  life.  This  is  the  way 
he  puts  it:  "Fun  is  cousin  to  Common  Sense.  They  live  pleas- 
antly together,  and  none  but  fools  try  to  divorce  them." 

Lute  A.  Taylor  was  born  at  Norfolk,  New  York,  September 
14,  1863.  He  came  to  River  Falls,  Wisconsin,  in  1856,  where 
he  became  editor  of  the  River  Falls  Journal  in  June,  1857. 
He  removed  his  paper  to  Prescott  in  1861  and  called  it  the 
Prescott  Journal.  In  1869  he  became  one  of  the  publishers 
and  editor-in-chief  of  the  La  Crosse  Morning  Leader.  In  addi- 
tion to  his  newspaper  work  he  held  the  appointive  offices  of 
assistant  assossor  of  internal  revenues,  assessor  of  the  sixth 
congressional  district  of  Wisconsin,  and  surveyor  of  the  port 
of  entry  at  La  Crosse.  He  died  at  the  latter  place  November 
11.  1875. 

When  Lute  was  eight  years  old  his  father  died,  and  the 
boy  was  thrown  upon  his  own  resources  quite  largely  from  this 
early  age.  The  resulting  struggle  limited  his  opportunities  for 
school  and  academy  somewhat,  but  it  revealed  to .  him  the 
blessings  of  persistent  effort  and  gave  him  a  sympathy  for  the 
sufferings  of  mankind.  His  genial  disposition  and  keen  wit 
made  him  see  the  joyous  in  life,  so  that  between  trial  and  joy 
he  may  be  said  to  have  been  a  veritable  "vibration  between  a 
smile  and  a  tear." 

Since  so  much  of  his  effort  in  a  literary  way  was  serious, 
it  is  thought  best  to  illustrate  this  as  well  as  his  humor.  Two 
selections  are  chosen,  both  from  the  Chip  Basket,  which  in  its 
turn  is  a  selection  from  his  newspaper  articles.  He  had  not 
only  the  ability  to  write  the  extended  article,  but  also  the  much 
more  rare  ability  of  boiling  down  into  concentrated  compari- 
sons some  of  his  richest  observations.  Out  of  twenty  such 
quotations  just  these  two  are  given  as  illustrations: 

"There  is  a  thread  in  our  thought  as  there  is  a  pulse  in  our 
heart;  he  who  can  hold  the  one  knows  how  to  think;  and  he 
who  can  move  the  other,  knows  how  to  feel." 

"A  man  may  be  successful  as  a  loafer,  and  invest  less  capi- 
tal and  brains  than  are  required  to  succeed  in  any  other  line." 

To  illustrate  a  bit  of  his  humor  due  to  the  mingling  of  non- 
sense and  facts  a  few  paragraphs  from  a  letter  to  the  St.  Paul 
Pioneer  concerning  the  city  of  Chicago  are  given. 

LUTE  A.  TAYLOR. 

CHICAGO 

I  like  Chicago.  Chicago  is  a  large  city.  I  have  no- 
ticed there  are  always  many  people  in  a  large  city.  A  city 
doesn  't  do  well  without  them.  Some  of  your  readers  may 
not  have  been  to  Chicago.  Shall  I  tell  them  about  it? 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  289 

There  are  many  groceries  here,  where  they  sell  tea, 
cod-fish,  whiskey,  flour,  molasses,  saleratus  and  such 
things,  and  other  groceries  where  they  sell  cloth,  women's 
clothes,  and  fancy  'fixin's'  generally.  Field,  Leiter  and 
Co.  have  one  of  the  latter.  It  is  in  cube  form — a  block 
long,  a  block  high,  and  a  block  thick.  It  is  bigger  than 
a  barn,  and  tall  as  a  light-house.  There  are  more  than 
forty  clerks  in  it. 

There  are  lots  of  ships  here,  and  horse-cars,  but  the 
horses  don't  ride  in  them,  though,  and  the  water-works. 
I  must  tell  you  about  the  water-works.  They  are  a  big 
thing.  Much  water  is  used  in  Chicago.  Fastidious  people 
sometimes  wash  in  it.  Chicago  has  first-class  water  now, 
and  plenty  of  it.  She  has  built  a  tunnel  two  miles  long, 
and  tapped  Lake  Michigan  that  distance  from  the  shore. 
The  water  runs  down  to  the  home  station,  and  is  then 
lifted  up  high  by  steam  engines  and  distributed  over  the 
city.  The  hoisting  of  it  is  a  good  deal  like  work.  I  like 
to  see  these  engines  work.  Any  body  would.  Clean,  pol- 
ished, shining  monsters,  they  seem  to  take  a  conscious 
pride  in  their  performance,  and  the  tireless  movement  of 
their  mighty  arms  seems  almost  as  resistless  as  the  will 
of  God.  But  they  cost  scrips,  these  piles  of  polished  ma- 
chinery and  throbbing  life  do;  and  with  that  regard  for 
economy  which  has  always  characterized  me,  I  think  I 
have  discovered  a  plan  by  which  this  work  can  be  done 
at  nearly  nominal  expense.  I  only  wonder  that  Chicago, 
with  her  accredited  'git'  and  'gumption,'  has  not  accepted 
my  plan  before.  My  plan  is  this:  At  the  shore  end  of 
the  tunnel  build  a  large  tank  or  reservoir,  put  two  first- 
class  whales  in  it,  and  let  them  spout  the  water  up.  Sim- 
ple, isn't  it?  And  feasible  too,  and  cheap.  You  see  the 
whales  would  furnish  their  own  clothes  and  lodging,  and 


290  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

all  the  oil  they  would  need  for  lighting  to  work  nights  by, 
and  the  city  would  really  be  out  nothing  but  their  board. 
Whales  have  always  been  in  the  water  elevating  business, 
so  this  would  be  right  in  their  line.  They  would  work 
and  think  it  was  fun — just  as  a  boy  sometimes,  but  not 
most  always,  does — and  there  is  no  good  reason  why  their 
sporting  instinct  should  not  be  turned  to  practical. 

I  am  confident  of  the  final  success  of  my  plan,  but 
the  prejudices  of  people  against  innovations  may  retard 
its  operation  for  some  time  yet. 

Speaking  of  water  makes  me  think  that  Chicago,  like 
St.  Paul,  has  a  river,  only  not  so  much  so.  Rivers  most 
always  run  by  large  cities,  they  seem  to  like  to,  some 
way.  But  this  is  a  brigandish  sort  of  river,  black,  foul, 
and  murky,  and  in  the  dark  night  it  steals  sullenly  through 
the  city  like  a  prowling  fiend. 

Two  paragraphs  will  serve  to  illustrate  Lute  Taylor's 
ability  to  meditate  upon  the  common-place  and  draw  there- 
from the  wholesome  lesson.  We  are  choosing  his  comments 
upon  a  "nickname,"  where  he  says: 

The  man  who  has  won  a  nickname  and  wears  it 
gracefully,  has  the  elements  of  popularity  about  him.  The 
same  instinct  which  leads  a  mother  to  apply  diminutive 
phrases  of  endearment  to  her  little  ones  is  a  universal 
instinct,  one  which  we  never  outgrow,  and  which  con- 
tinually manifests  itself  in  our  form  of  addressing  or 
speaking  of  those  we  love,  trust  or  admire. 

The  man  who  is  known  in  his  neighborhood  as 
" Uncle"  is  never  a  cold,  crabbed  or  selfish  character.  He 
is  sure  to  have  a  generous  heart,  and  wear  a  cheerful 
smile — there  is  integrity  in  him  which  men  trust,  and 
warmth  around  him  which  little  children  love  to  gather, 
and  the  term  is  a  title  of  honor — more  to  be  desired  than 
that  of  honorable. 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  291 

"BILL"  NYE. 

Edgar  Wilson  Nye,  known  to  his  readers  as  "Bill  Nye," 
was  born  in  Shirley,  Maine,  August  25,  1850.  He  removed 
with  his  parents  to  Wisconsin  in  1854.  As  a  mere  school  boy, 
he  loved  to  say  those  things  which  afforded  amusement  to  his 
associates  and  his  family.  In  an  article  in  Collier's  for  April 
10,  1915,  his  mother  tells  the  following  anecdote  concerning 
him  when  a  boy  working  on  the  Wisconsin  farm: 

The  two  boys,  Edgar  (Bill)  and  his  brother  Frank  had 
been  working  in  the  field,  but  were  separated  on  their  return 
to  the  house  at  noon  time.  They  met  again  at  the  pump,  when 
the  following  conversation  ensued: 

"Edgar  looked  at  Frank  as  if  surprised,  and  inquired: 
'Your  name  Nye?' 

'Yes,'  replied  Frank,  with  perfect  gravity  in  order  to  lead 
his  brother  on. 

'That's  funny;  my  name's  Nye,  too,'  observed  Edgar.  'Where 
were  you  born?' 

'In  Maine,'  answered  Frank. 

'I  was  born  in  Maine  myself,'  said  Edgar.  'I  wouldn't 
doubt  at  all  if  we  were  some  relation.  Got  any  brothers?' 

'Yes,  I  have -two  brothers.' 

'Well,  well,  this  is  growing  interesting.  I've  got  two 
brothers  myself.  I'll  bet  if  the  thing  were  all  traced  out,  there 
would  be  some  family  relationship  found.  Are  your  brothers 
older  or  younger  than  you?' 

'I  have  one  brother  older  and  one  younger,'  replied  Frank. 

'Oh,  well,  then  we  can't  be  any  relation  after  all,'  declared 
Edgar  with  a  look  of  disappointment;  'my  brothers  are  both 
older.'  " 

While  a  young  man  he  went  to  the  then  territory  of  Wyom- 
ing, where  he  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1876. 
He  later  returned  to  River  Falls,  Wisconsin,  where  he  engaged 
in  newspaper  work.  Some  years  later  he  traveled  with  James 
Whitcomb  Riley  and  gave  entertainments  in  which  mirth  was 
the  essential  feature.  He  later  removed  from  Wisconsin  and 
made  his  home  in  New  York  City.  He  died  at  Asheville,  N.  C., 
Feb.  22,  1896. 

His  writings  appeared  under  the  following  titles: 

Bill  Nye  and  Boomerang,  in  1881;  Forty  Liars,  in  1883; 
Remarks,  in  1886;  Baled  Hay  and  Fun,  Wit  and  Humor,  with 
J.  W.  Riley,  in  1889;  Comic  History  of  the  United  States,  in 
1894;  Comic  History  of  England,  in  1896. 

To  illustrate  his  humor  due  to  the  mingling-  of  fact  and  non- 
sense, we  reproduce  here  a  portion  of  his  chapter  upon  Franklin 
as  published  in  his  Comic  History  of  the  United  States. 

Reprinted  through  permission  of  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co. 


292  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

It  is  considered  advisable  by  the  historian  at  this  time 
to  say  a  word  regarding  Dr.  Franklin,  our  fellow-towns- 
man, and  a  journalist  who  was  the  Charles  A.  Dana  of 
his  time.  Franklin's  memory  will  remain  green  when  the 
names  of  millionaires  of  to-day  are  forgotten. 

But  let  us  proceed  to  more  fully  work  out  the  life 
and  labors  of  this  remarkable  man. 

Benjamin  Franklin,  formerly  of  Boston,  came  very 
near  being  an  only  child.  If  seventeen  children  had  not 
come  to  bless  the  home  of  Benjamin's  parents,  they  would 
have  been  childless.  Think  of  getting  up  in  the  morning 
and  picking  out  your  shoes  ancl  stockings  from  among 
seventeen  pairs  of  them ! 

And  yet  Benjamin  Franklin  never  murmured  or  re- 
pined. He  decided  to  go  to  sea,  and  to  avoid  this  he  was 
apprenticed  to  his  brother  James,  who  was  a  printer. 

His  paper  was  called  the  New  England  Courant.  It 
was  edited  jointly  by  James  and  Benjamin  Franklin,  and 
was  started  to  supply  a  long-felt  want. 

Benjamin  edited  it  a  part  of  the  time,  and  James  a  part 
of  the  time.  The  idea  of  having  two  editors  was  not 
for  the  purpose  of  giving  volume  to  the  editorial  page,  but 
it  was  necessary  for  one  to  run  the  paper  while  the  other 
was  in  jail. 

In  those  days  you  could  not  sass  the  king,  and  then, 
when  the  king  came  in  the  office  the  next  day  and  stopped 
his  paper  and  took  out  his  ad,  put  it  off  on  'our  informant' 
and  go  right  along  with  the  paper.  You  had  to  go  to 
jail,  while  your  subscribers  wondered  why  their  paper  did 
not  come,  and  the  paste  soured  in  the  tin  dippers  in  the 
sanctum,  and  the  circus  passed  by  on  the  other  side. 
How  many  of  us  today,  fellow-journalists,  would  be 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  293 

willing  to  stay  in  jail  while  the  lawn  festival  and  the 
kangaroo  came  and  went  ?  Who  of  all  our  company  would 
go  to  a  prison-cell  for  the  cause  of  freedom  while  a 
double-column  ad  of  sixteen  aggregated  circuses,  and 
eleven  congresses  of  ferocious  beasts,  fierce  and  fragrant 
from  their  native  lair,  went  by  us? 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  Ben  got  disgusted  Avith  his 
brother,  and  went  to  Philadelphia  and  New  York,  where 
he  got  a  chance  to  'sub'  for  a  few  weeks  and  then  got 
a  regular  job. 

Franklin  was  a  good  printer  and  finally  got  to  be  a 
foreman.  He  made  an  excellent  foreman.  He  knew  just 
how  to  conduct  himself  as  a  foreman  so  that  strangers 
would  think  he  owned  the  paper. 

In  1730,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  Franklin  married, 
and  established  the  Pennsylvania  Gazette.  He  was  then 
regarded  as  a  great  man,  and  almost  every  one  took  his 
paper. 

-Franklin  grew  to  be  a  great  journalist,  and  spelled 
hard  words  with  great  fluency.  He  never  tried  to  be  a 
humorist  in  any  of  his  newspaper  work,  and  everybody 
respected  him. 

Along  about  1746  he  began  to  study  the  habits  and 
construction  of  lightning,  and  inserted  a  local  in  his  paper 
in  which  he  said  that  he  would  be  obliged  to  any  of  his 
readers  who  might  notice  any  new  odd  specimens  of 
lightning,  if  they  would  send  them  to  the  Gazette  office 
for  examination. 

Every  time  there  was  a  thunderstorm  Frank  would 
tell  the  foreman  to  edit  the  paper,  and,  armed  with  a 
string  and  an  old  doorkey,  he  would  go  out  on  the  hills 
and  get  enough  lightning  for  a  mess. 

In  1753  Franklin  was  made  postmaster  of  the  colonies. 


294  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

He  made  a  good  Postmaster-General,  and  people  say  there 
were  fewer  mistakes  in  distributing  their  mail  then  than 
there  have  ever  been  since.  If  a  man  mailed  a  letter  in 
those  days,  Ben  Franklin  saw  that  it  went  to  where  it  was 
addressed. 

Franklin  frequently  went  over  to  England  in  those 
days,  partly  on  business  and  partly  to  shock  the  king.  He 
liked  to  go  to  the  castle  with  his  breeches  tucked  in  his 
boots,  figuratively  speaking,  and  attract  a  great  deal  of 
attention.  Franklin  never  put  on  any  frills,  but  he  was 
not  afraid  of  crowned  heads. 

He  did  his  best  to  prevent  the  Revolutionary  War,  but 
he  couldn't  do  it.  Patrick  Henry  had  said  that  war  was 
inevitable,  and  had  given  it  permission  to  come,  and  it 
came. 

He  also  went  to  Paris,  and  got  acquainted  with  a  few 
crowned  heads  there.  They  thought  a  good  deal  of  him 
in  Paris,  and  offered  him  a  corner  lot  if  he  would  build 
there  and  start  a  paper.  They  also  offered  him  the  county 
printing;  but  he  said,  no,  he  would  have  to  go  back  to 
America  or  his  wife  might  get  uneasy  about  him.  Frank- 
lin wrote  'Poor  Richard's  Almanac*  in  1732  to  1757,  and 
it  was  republished  in  England. 

Dr.  Franklin  entered  Philadelphia  eating  a  loaf  of 
bread  and  carrying  a  loaf  under  each  arm,  passing  be- 
neath the  window  of  the  girl  whom  he  afterward  gave  his 
hand  in  marriage. 

GEORGE  W.  PECK 

One  section  of  this  book  might  be  devoted  wholly  to  the 
work  of  newspaper  men  in  furthering  the  progress  of  litera- 
ture in  the  state.  Several  names  would  deserve  mention  in 
such  connection, — among  them  E.  D.  Coe,  of  Whitewater; 
Colonel  Robert  M.  Crawford,  of  Mineral  Point;  John  Nagle,  of 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  295 

Manitowoc;  Major  Atkinson,  of  Eau  Claire;  Horace  Rublee  and 
A.  M.  Thomson,  of  the  Milwaukee  Sentinel;  Bruce  Pomeroy, 
of  La  Crosse;  Amos  P.  Wilder,  of  the  State  Journal,  Madison; 
E.  P.  Petherick,  of  Milwaukee;  Colonel  A.  J.  Watrous,  of  Mil- 
waukee, and  two  former  Governors  of  Wisconsin, — W.  D. 
Hoard,  of  Fort  Atkinson,  and  George  W.  Peck,  of  Milwaukee, 
besides  Mr.  Nye  and  Mr.  Taylor,  mentioned  above. 

Mr.  Peck  was  born  in  New  York  in  1840,  but  he  has  lived 
in  Wisconsin  since  1843.  He  has  been  connected  with  news- 
papers at  Whitewater,  Jefferson,  La  Crosse,  and  Milwaukee. 
He  founded  the  "Sun"  at  La  Crosse  in  1874,  and  later  removed 
it  to  Milwaukee,  where  he  called  it  "Peck's  Sun."  At  one  time 
he  was  unquestionably  the  best-known  writer  in  Wisconsin, 
and  the  best-known  Wisconsin  writer  throughout  the  country, 
which  fame  came  to  him  through  his  "Peck's  Bad  Boy" 
sketches.  He  was  also  the  author  of  "Peck's  Compendium  of 
Fun,"  "Peck's  Sunshine,"  together  with  almost  countless 
sketches  which  usually  were  in  some  way  connected  with  the 
mischief-loving,  mirth-provoking  "Bad  Boy."  Neighbors  of  the 
Pecks  in  Whitewater  tend,  by  their  recollection  of  the  former 
Governor,  to  confirm  the  suspicion  that  not  all  of  "Peck's  Bad 
Boy"  was  fiction,  and  that  the  author  himself  may  have  played 
a  not  inconsiderable  part  in  the  scenes  therein  depicted. 

Mr.  Peck's  fellow-citizens  in  Milwaukee  honored  him  with 
the  mayoralty,  and  the  citizens  of  the  state  made  him  Gover- 
nor from  1891  to  1895.  He  is  now,  January,  1916,  a  familiar 
figure  to  Milwaukee  citizens.  He  has  a  keen  memory  for  his 
old  friends,  and  citizens,  both  young  and  old,  who  can  remind 
him  of  some  of  his  old  neighbors  in  Whitewater  or  Jefferson 
are  always  sure  of  a  pleasant  chat  with  him. 


TROUBLE  ABOUT  READING  A  NEWSPAPER 

From    "PECK'S    BOSS    BOOK,"    p.    42.     Copyright,    1900,    by   W.    B. 
Conkey  Co. 

A  man  came  into  the  "Sim"  office  on  Tuesday  with 
a  black  eye,  a  strip  of  court  plaster  across  his  cheek,  one 
arm  in  a  sling,  and  as  he  leaned  on  a  crutch  and  wiped  the 
perspiration  away  from  around  a  lump  on  his  forehead, 
with  a  red  cotton  handkerchief,  he  asked  if  the  editor 
was  in.  We  noticed  that  there  was  quite  a  healthy  smell 
of  stock-yards  about  the  visitor,  but  thinking  that  in  his 
crippled  condition  we  could  probably  whip  him,  if  worst 
came  to  worst,  we  admitted  that  we  were  in. 


296  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

"Well,  I  want  to  stop  my  paper, "  said  he,  as  he  sat 
down  on  one  edge  of  a  chair,  as  though  it  might  hurt. 
"Scratch  my  name  right  off.  You  are  responsible  for  my 
condition." 

Thinking  the  man  might  have  been  taking  our  advice 
to  deaf  men,  to  always  walk  on  a  railroad  track  if  they 
could  find  one,  we  were  preparing  to  scratch  him  off 
without  any  argument,  believing  that  he  was  a  man  who 
knew  when  he  had  enough,  when  he  spoke  up  as  follows : 

"The  amount  of  it  is  this.  I  live  out  in  Jefferson 
county,  and  I  come  in  on  the  new  Northwestern  road, 
just  to  get  recreation.  I  am  a  farmer,  and  keep  cows.  I 
recently  read  an  article  in  your  paper  about  a  dairymen's 
convention,  where  one  of  the  mottoes  over  the  door  was, 
'Treat  your  cow  as  you  would  a  lady,'  and  the  article 
said  it  was  contended  by  our  best  dairymen  that  a  cow, 
treated  in  a  polite,  gentlemanly  manner,  as  though  she 
was  a  companion,  would  give  twice  as  much  milk.  The 
plan  seemed  feasible  to  me.  I  had  been  a  hard  man  with 
stock,  and  thought  maybe  that  was  one  reason  my  cows 
always  dried  up  when  butter  was  forty  cents  a  pound, 
and  gave  plenty  of  milk  when  butter  was  only  worth 
fifteen  cents  a  pound.  I  decided  to  adopt  your  plan,  and 
treat  a  cow  as  I  would  a  lady.  I  had  a  brindlc  cow  that 
never  had  been  very  much  mashed  on  me,  and  I  decided 
to  commence  on  her,  and  the  next  morning  after  I  read 
your  devilish  paper,  I  put  on  my  Sunday  suit  and  a  white 
plug  hat  that  I  bought  the  year  Greeley  ran  for  President, 
and  went  to  the  barn  to  milk.  I  noticed  the  old  cow 
seemed  to  be  bashful  and  frightened,  but  taking  off  my 
hat  and  bowing  politely,  I  said,  'Madame,  excuse  the 
seeming  impropriety  of  the  request,  but  will  you  do  me 
the  favor  to  hoist?'  At  the  same  time  I  tapped  her 


WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG  297 

gently  on  the  flank  with  my  plug  hat,  and  putting  the  tin 
pail  on  the  floor  under  her,  I  sat  down  on  the  milking 
stool. " 

"Did  she  hoist?"  said  we,  rather  anxious  to  know  how 
the  advice  of  President  Smith,  of  Sheboygan,  the  great 
dairyman,  had  worked. 

"Did  she  hoist?  Well,  look  at  me,  and  see  if  you 
think  she  hoisted.  Say,  I  tell  you  now  in  confidence,  and 
I  don't  want  it  repeated,  but  that  cow  raised  right  up 
and  kicked  me  with  all  four  feet,  switched  me  with  her 
tail,  and  hooked  me  with  both  horns,  all  at  once;  and 
when  I  got  up  out  of  the  bedding  in  the  stall,  and  dug  my 
hat  out  of  the  manger,  and  the  milking-stool  out  from 
under  me,  and  began  to  maul  that  cow,  I  forgot  all  about 
the  proper  treatment  of  horned  cattle.  Why,  she  fairly 
galloped  over  me,  and  I  never  want  to  read  your  old 
paper  again. " 

We  tried  to  explain  to  him  that  the  advice  did  not 
apply  to  brindle  cows  at  all,  but  he  hobbled  out,  the  mad- 
dest man  that  ever  asked  a  cow  to  hoist  in  diplomatic 
language. 


WILLIAM  F.  KIRK 

William  F.  Kirk  is  no  longer  a  resident  of  Milwaukee,  he 
having  been  called  to  a  larger  sphere  of  work  on  New  York 
papers.  But  for  a  period  of  some  eight  or  ten  years  he  en- 
Nightingale"  sketches,  of  which  one  is  here  given, 
deared  himself  to  the  readers  of  the  Milwaukee  Sentinel  by 
his  daily  column.  In  it  he  had  many  quips  which  reminded 
one  of  Eugene  Field  in  his  "Sharps  and  Flats."  But  perhaps 
the  most  popular  type  of  his  work  appeared  in  his  "Norsk 


298  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFE 

From  the  "NORSK  NIGHTINGALE.  BEING  THE  LYRICS  OF  A 
•LUMBER  YACKV  by  William  F.  Kirk.  Copyright.  1905.  by 
Small.  Maynard  &  Co.  (Inc.). 

Tal  me  not,  yu  knocking  falters, 

Life  ban  only  empty  dream; 
Dar  ban  planty  fun,  ay  tal  yu, 

Ef  yu  try  Yohn  Yohnson's  scheme. 
Yobn  ban  yust  a  section  foreman, 

Vorking  hard  vay  up  on  Soo; 
He  ban  yust  so  glad  in  morning 

As  ven  all  his  vork  ban  tru. 

"York,"  says  Yohn,  "ban  vat  yu  mak  It 

Ef  yu  tenk  das  vork  ban  hard, 
Yu  skol  having  planty  headaches, — 

Yes,  yu  bet  yure  life,  old  pard; 
But  ay  alvays  yerk  my  coat  off, 

Grab  my  shovel  and  my  pick, 
And  dis  yob  ant  seem  lak  hard  von 

Ef  ay  du  it  purty  qvick." 

Yohn  ban  foreman  over  fallers. 

He  ant  have  to  vork,  yu  see; 
But,  yu  bet,  he  ant  no  loafer, 

And  he  yust  digs  in,  by  yee! 
"Listen,  Olaf,"  he  skol  tal  me, 

"Making  living  ant  no  trick, 
And  the  hardest  yob  ban  easy 

Ef  you  only  du  it  qvick!" 

Let  us  den  be  op  and  yumping, 

Always  glad  to  plow  tru  drift; 
Ven  our  vork  ban  done,  den  let  us 

Give  some  oder  faller  lift. 
Den,  ay  bet  yu,  old  Saint  Peter, 

He  skol  tenk  ve're  purty  slick; 
Ve  can  go  tru  gates,  ay  bet  yu, 

Ef  ve  only  du  it  qvick! 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  GROUPS. 

Adams,  Mary  M 275 

Anderson,    Rasmus   B 228 

Baer,  Libbie  C 273 

Baker,  Ray  Stannard 86-99 

Birge,  E.  A 224 

Blaisdell,  J.  A 279 

Bond,  Leda 271 

Brayley,   Berton 265 

Brown,  Neal 284 

Brown,   S.   W 283 

Carlton,    Carrie .*....  276 

Centers  of  Literary  Activity 172,  184,  219 

Chamberlain,  Mrs 276 

Chase,  Wilfred  E .V;  .1 ...........  281 

Coe,  E.  D 270 

Comstock,   George  C 242 

Davidson,  J.  N 281 

Thomas,  Herbert  Dickinson 260 

Ferber,   Edna 163 

Flower,  Elliott 202 

Gale,    Zona 114 

Garland,  Hamlin 13 

Grayson,   David 99 

Griswold,  Hattie  T ,..,...,.  189 

Henderson,  J.  R 274 

Hoard,   W.    D. ,.. .  295 

Humorists    287 

Jones,  Howard  M 265 

Jones,  Jenkin   Lloyd 209 

King,    General   Charles 40 

Kirk,   William   F 297 

Lathrop,   Harry 278 

Leonard,  William  E 254 

Manville,   Marion.  .  .     , 279 


300  WISCONSIN    IN    STORY    AND    SONG 

Merrick,  George  B 184 

McNeil,    Everett 213 

Moore,  Ada  P 277 

Muir,  John 64 

Nagle,  John 280 

Neidig,  William  J 263 

Newspaper   Men 294 

Nye.  Edgar  W.   (Bill) . 291 

Peck,   George   W 294 

Plantz,   Myra  G 275 

Pyre,  J.  F.  A 245 

Reinsch,  Paul  S 238 

Rexford,  Eben  E 128 

BOM,  Edward  A 24G 

Salisbury.  Albert  and  Rollin 172 

Sanford,  Albert  H 193 

Schurz,  Carl 146 

Sheriff,  C.  F 270 

Showerman,    Grant. 251 

Stevens  Point  as  a  Center 184 

Stewart,   Charles  D 196 

Taylor,  Lute 288 

Teeple,  George  L 172 

Thompson,   A.   M" 271 

Thwaites,  Reuben  Gold 230 

Turner,   Frederick  J 234 

University  as  a  Center,  The 184,  219 

University   Group,   The 219 

Van  Hise,  Charles  R 220 

Webster,  Joseph  P 269 

Wheeler.  Cora  K 285 

Whitewater  as  a  Center 172,  295 

Whitney,  J.  H 272 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler 72 

Willsie,    Honors 150 

Winslow,   Horatio 265 

Writers  of  Local  Distinction 270 

Writers  not  represented 286 


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